


Suitcase of Memories

by Saone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Getting Together, Lucky just wants more pizza, M/M, May is going to make Phil pay, Phil Can Be a Jackass, Phil Can Be a Jerk, Phil Needs a Hug, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saone/pseuds/Saone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been roughly a year since the Battle of New York, and Clint's had to come to terms with a lot of awful stuff. He's not doing great, but he's doing better than he was.  And then Melinda May shows up at his door with a still-alive, but significantly de-aged Phil Coulson...</p><p>Futz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.
> 
> Warnings: There's talk of PTSD and combat-related trauma, conversations about consent issues concerning a de-aged - though not underaged (Phil's 19) - character, objectification of male and female characters, a mention of recreational drug use, and a mention of past animal abuse.

Clint has long suspected that he must have done something epically bad in a previous life with the amount of times he's gotten shit on in this one, but this - _this_ \- is beyond what anyone should be asked to endure.

"I can't deal with him anymore," May growls as she pushes her way into Clint's apartment, her hand firmly on the tee shirt clad triceps of the kid she's dragging with her.

The kid - Christ, Clint feels old - has got to be late teens, at least, maybe even early twenties. And from the distinctive eyes, nose, and chin, it's kind of obvious just who this _kid_ is.

May takes a quick, assessing look around Clint's apartment, then propels the kid towards couch. "Sit."

The kid rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically as he collapses onto the middle cushion. Clint notices that, even while sitting, the hems of the black cargo pants he's wearing drape down over some familiar-looking sneakers. The kid's wearing borrowed clothes. SHIELD issue, if Clint's not mistaken.

"Uh..." Clint tears his eyes away from the interlopers and leans out into the hallway. He's not sure what he hopes to see - cameras, Ashton Kutcher, a man handing out slices of cheese telling him he should probably wake up now... There's no one there. He pulls himself back into his apartment and shuts the door. "Uh..."

The kid snorts. "Yeah, you've brought me to a real winner here, lady."

Clint knows he should probably take offense, but his brain is still a little stuck at the moment. He had planned for an evening of watching Dog Cops and lamenting over how awful his life is, and now he has _visitors_. He wonders if he should offer them anything. Maybe he should make some coffee.

May looks like she's just barely restraining herself from throttling the kid. Her fingers are actually twitching a bit. "Seriously, Barton," she says, "I know you probably, _obviously_ , have questions, but I can't deal with him anymore. Ward can't deal with him. Fitz and Simmons can't deal with him. Even Skye can't deal with him, and Skye adores Coulson." 

The kid grins. "Skye can _adore_ me anytime she likes; she's super hot."

Clint has no idea who Skye is, but judging from the look May gets on her face, his estimation of the kid's self preservation instincts drop dramatically.

May's nostrils flare. "Do you understand why we can't deal with him anymore? If he stays on the Bus, I will end up hurting him in probably an irreparable manner, which I would most likely feel bad about. _Eventually_." May glares at the kid and flexes her hands. 

The kid abruptly loses his smugness and shrinks down a bit.

"I..." Clint scratches his head, then the scruff on his chin. "Okay. I get it. Kid seems like a shit. What do you want me to do about it?"

May gives him an odd look. "Watch him. Fitz and Simmons swear they're close to figuring out what happened and how to reverse it. They said it would take a few days, a week at most. Just watch him."

"May..." Clint looks at the kid. The kid scowls and gives him the finger. "Why me? I haven't exactly had the best track record with... _people_ recently. I mean, I'm sure there are agents you can take him to. What about family? Where's his mom? _Who's_ his mom?"

The kid stiffens. "I thought you said my mom was dead."

"She is," May says, her voice far less harsh than the look she aims at Clint.

"Damn," Clint says, feeling a bit like a heel, even though he couldn't have known. "Sorry, kid."

"Barton, why the hell..." May cuts herself off and blinks a few times. "Crap. You know who this is, right?"

"Well, we've never been formally introduced. In fact, I never even knew he existed until you guys barged in here, but I'm assuming he's... Well, he's Phil's son, right?"

The kid and May get almost the same uncomfortable grimace on their faces.

Clint has the sudden urge to start running. He squashes it as best as he can. "What? He's not Phil's son? Phil's nephew, then?" He frowns. "He's definitely got Coulson genes in him. Didn't think Phil had siblings, though."

"Barton," May says, her mouth twisting up like she's just swallowed something foul, "this is Phil."

Clint stops breathing for a moment. May's face is serious, not that she would ever joke about something like this. And the kid's face... that face. 

"It's true," the kid says defiantly, obviously taking Clint's silence as some kind of doubt. "I am Phil Coulson. And, evidently, it's the future, and I'm a secret agent, or something, which is rad, but I'm supposed to be all old and shit, which is-"

"No," Clint says, finally finding his voice, "you're supposed to be dead." 

"Barton!"

May looks even more pissed than before, but that's fine because so is Clint. He's not exactly itching for a brawl, but he wouldn't mind a little physical pain to help deflect his attention from the yawning, bleak chasm that's opened somewhere behind his sternum.

"What does he mean," The kid says, turning narrow, accusing eyes May's way. "I'm supposed to be dead? You said-"

"Shut up."

"No, but you said I was just _de-aged_ or whatever. No one said anything about-"

"Shut up," May says again. She makes a slashing motion with one hand, and the kid goes quiet. She then sets her jaw and turns back to Clint. She studies him for a moment, and whatever she sees results in a complicated expression that ends up falling uncomfortably close to pity territory. "I thought you knew."

"Knew what?" Clint manages to get out.

"I swear to God, Clint, you two were so close, I... I thought you knew. I wouldn't have come here if I-"

"Knew _what_?"

May takes a deep breath, and Clint steels himself because this is going to hurt. "This is Phil Coulson. The real Phil Coulson. He's not a clone, or a LMD, or anything else you might be thinking. Fury managed to bring him back. His survival's been kept under wraps, but it's him."

"Bullshit."

"Barton-"

"Bullshit!"

" _Clint_ -"

"I've watched the recording, May. Nobody walks away from a wound like that. Nobody."

May stares at him. Under her hard gaze, Clint realizes that he's shaking just a bit. He tries to steady himself, but it's not easy.

"Look," she says, "I know I just turned your world upside down, and for that I am truly sorry. And I wish I could sit you down and tell you everything that's been going on, but I don't have that kind of time. For now, you are going to have to shelve whatever crisis you're having because I need you. Phil needs you."

" _Phil_..." Clint licks his lips and tries again. "Phil let me believe he was dead for over a year while he was, what, off with a new team? That's who the people are that you were just talking about, right? Ward, and Skye, and all them. His new team."

"Goddammit, Phil," May mutters. She glances at the kid on the couch, who is looking a bit pale and wide-eyed. "Older you is going to owe me so fucking much, he will spend _years_ ruing the day he put me into this position, I swear to Christ." She shakes her head sharply, and turns back to Clint. "I'm definitely not denying that the way Phil treated you was shitty, and I'm also not condoning keeping you in the dark. But the only person who's going to be able to answer all the questions I'm sure you have, is Phil himself. So, if you want those answers, keep this version of him alive until Fitz and Simmons can fix him. Then, after he's back to normal, you can beat your truth out of him for all I care."

Clint is suddenly so very, very tired. "May-"

From one blink to the next, May's moved across the room and into Clint's space. She leans in and lowers her voice. "There is more to Phil's story than you can possibly imagine, and the list of people affiliated with SHIELD that I truly trust with him at the moment can be counted on one hand with a couple of fingers left over." May puts a hand on Clint's forearm and squeezes it lightly. "Please."

There's only one answer Clint can give, really. Only one answer he could ever give. He nods.

May turns around and addresses the kid - _Phil_ \- again. "As I'm sure you can guess, the adult version of you pretty much screwed Barton here over in a truly horrible way. Yet, he has still agreed to try and keep you relatively safe, because he is a good man. So, you will keep your shit to a minium, and you will not fuck this up. Agreed?"

Phil swallows. "Yeah," he says. His voice is subdued, his posture submissive.

Clint would buy the act, but he knows Phil's a liar.

"Wonderful," May says. She heads for the door, but Clint stops her before she can slip through.

"Should I be expecting trouble?" he asks.

"You mean other than from the punk-ass on your couch? Barton, you should always expect trouble." And with that parting shot, she's gone.

Clint closes the door behind her and lets his head lean against the wood. He stays there for a minute or so, before he straightens up, turns around, and tries not to flinch at finding those familiar blue eyes focused on him. "So," he says, trying - and failing - to inject some lightness into his voice, "are you hungry or-"

"I have to take a piss." Phil's doing his best to look innocent, but he obviously hasn't learned to school his face that well yet. Clint feels a headache start to bloom behind his right eye.

"Okay," Clint says. He gestures towards the far end of the apartment. "Bathroom's that way. There's one window. It sticks a bit and it's kind of narrow, but you could probably fit your shoulders through it if you angle them right. I'm not going to hold it against you if you try to run, but I think you should know what will happen."

Phil's face, which had cycled through several kinda of hilarious expressions as Clint talked, settles on a sneer. "What, you'll call scary lady to come back and get me?"

"No. I'll hunt you down myself. And when I find you, which I will, I'll knock you out, drag you back here, strip you, hogtie you, stuff you in the bathtub, and hose you off whenever you start to stink. Got it?"

Phil stares at him. "You wouldn't dare."

Clint laughs. A lot. He can't help it. "Yeah, okay. Whatever."

Phil scoffs, but Clint notices that he doesn't entirely take his eyes off him until the bathroom door is firmly shut. The sound of the lock engaging is overly loud in the too quiet apartment.

Clint hears the faucet start a moment later, and he sighs. He'll give Phil ten minutes. That should be long enough to make things a bit sporting.

While he's waiting, Clint goes to his weapons safe and takes out a blowgun and several tranquilizer darts. He stuffs those in his back pocket, then decides he should probably do something to help alleviate some of the nerves thrumming under his skin. He straps a quiver to his hip and takes out his bow and a few targets. The targets are already well perforated and torn in some places, but they haven't completely fallen apart yet, so they'll do. He hangs them up and goes to the other end of his apartment. By the time he's strung his bow and nocked his first arrow, he realizes the water's stopped.

When the door to the bathroom finally opens, there are six arrows centered nicely in the middle of the target. 

"Shit!" Phil yelps as the seventh arrow flies past him. "What the hell?!" He clutches at his chest and turns accusing eyes on Clint. "You could have hit me!"

Clint draws an eighth arrow, and tries to suppress a smirk as Phil scurries around to stand behind him. 

"You're seriously crazy, aren't you? Scary lady left me with crazy guy."

"Eh." Clint shrugs, then causally asks, "So, how far did you get?"

"What?"

"Just now. How far did you get?"

"In the bathroom? What, that a kink for you, or something?"

Coulson had always been a bit of a smartass, but unlike regular Coulson, baby Coulson evidently doesn't feel he has to hide it. Clint keeps a smile off his face as he looks over his shoulder. "I want to know how far you got _out_ of the bathroom."

Phil stares at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay," Clint says. He turns his gaze back to the target.

"But," Phil says, after a few more arrows have found home, "hypothetically speaking, if I didn't climb out the window, it's not because I believed all that shit you said you were going to do to me."

"All right."

"It's just... I have to trust you, don't I?"

Clint lowers his bow and turns so he's completely facing Phil. This new Phil with his attitude, and his straight nose, and his shock of dark hair. This Phil who suddenly looks so young, Clint has to reevaluate his age again.

"You don't have to," Clint says, "but this would be a hell of a lot easier if you did. You're stuck with me for at least a few days, and I'd rather not spend all that time fighting."

"Or you'll tie me up and put me in the bathtub?"

"No, that was only for if you'd decided to run." Clint feels a serious talking coming on. He starts to unstring his bow just to have something to do with his hands. Serious talks always make him twitchy. "I don't know how much May or the others told you about what you - regular you - did," Clint shakes his head, " _does_ , but-"

"I know it's crazy. Like something out a movie crazy." Phil shoulders start to bunch up. "I mean, _shit_ , I went to bed last night worrying about how my court case was going to go in the morning, and I woke up in this... this... _fuck_ , laboratory, right, with these people with _guns_ standing over me - and not just regular guns, but serious, Rambo type guns - and I was dressed in this really stupid suit, and there was an actual mad scientist on the floor next to me getting yelled at by this cute English chick, and I just-"

"Phil." Clint quickly pockets the string and sets down his bow. He holds out his hands and takes a step forward, intending to... comfort, console, who the hell knows, but he stops when Phil flinches away from him. "It's okay," he says in what he hopes is a somewhat soothing voice.

"Okay?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I'm in the _future_. I'm some kind of... secret agent - what the fuck?! I live on a _plane_. There is nothing about this that isn't nuts!"

So much for soothing. "Phil, listen to me." Clint tries for commanding this time, and that at least has some of the panic that had seeped into Phil's face, receding. "I know you're scared-"

"I'm not-"

"Shut up. You're terrified, and you know it. And it's all right. It's okay to be scared. Being scared won't affect your coolness, or whatever."

Phil snorts and rolls his eyes. "What the hell would you know about being cool?" he asks with the kind of scathing tone only teenagers really have.

"Absolutely nothing," Clint says with a smile. "But I know about being scared. I get scared all the time. And I also know... Look, I know what it's like to be... stuck... someplace, and not be able to... to get yourself out of the situation you've been put in."

"You got de-aged too?" Phil says, doubt clear in his voice and the tenseness of the muscles around his eyes.

"No. It was something different for me." Clint shakes his head and pretends the shiver that just ran up his spine is because he never weatherproofed his windows. "But it was still terrifying. What happened to me. And I should have handled you better, and I'm sorry. It's just, adult you was pretty much the most competent man I'd ever met..." Clint purses his lips. " _Is_. Is the most competent man I've ever met. And I didn't realize-"

"You really thought old me - future me - was dead, didn't you?" 

Clint stares at him for a moment. "Yeah."

"Why did I let you think that?"

Clint laughs a bit because if he doesn't he's afraid he might start crying or screaming, and neither one of those would be very conducive towards building the kind of rapport he's looking for. "I don't know, man," he says. "I really don't. I wish I did, but..." Except Clint thinks that maybe he does. But Phil wouldn't really hold Clint's possession by Loki against him, would he? Clint had had enough people over the past year and change telling him what he did wasn't his fault. Drilling it into his head until he came to believe it too. But what if Phil thought... "Anyway, I'm sorry I was harsh, but you can't leave. The world is more dangerous than it used to be, and the person you were - _are_ \- the person you... You have enemies. If the wrong people find out how vulnerable you are right now-"

"I get it," Phil says quickly. "I've seen spy movies. You don't have to spell it out or anything."

"Okay," Clint says. "I'm glad you understand."

Phil nods. "Yeah." He gives Clint a hard stare, then something soft and almost sheepish comes over his face. "Half way."

"Half way what?"

"It's how far I got out of the bathroom." He shrugs. "You were right; I had to angle my shoulders, but... I was mostly out the window, and then it hit me... Where the hell was I going to go, huh? One of the people from the plane gave me a new ID, but I don't have any money, and even if I did... Everyone I know is either dead or they're gonna be old, like I'm supposed to be." Phil shakes his head. "I'm stuck here until the geeks on the plane can figure out how to reverse what was done to me. If they can figure it out. And then what? Am I gonna wake up and be back in my room or am I just gonna not exist anymore? And if they can't figure it out, then..." Phil finally gives up pretending to be nothing but tough, and he wraps his arms around himself. "What are you people gonna do with me?"

"Hey," Clint says, taking a chance and reaching out again. This time, Phil lets him lightly rest a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not really the guy people go to for big, existential-"

"Do you even know what that word means?"

"- _Questions_ , so I don't know what might happen when they change you back. And I don't know the people future you is rolling with now-"

"You're obviously a font of useful information."

Clint scowls. "I was gonna say, I don't know them _except_ for Melinda May. And May, hardass though she might be, is your friend. And I'm willing to bet, the people on that plane... If they're your new team, then they were probably handpicked by you, and you don't go for second best." Clint takes a chance and squeezes the knotted muscles under his hand. "And if your new geniuses can't figure out how to reverse what happened, then we'll just have to take the problem to some different geniuses." Clint doesn't want to think about what Tony would make of this Phil. He also doesn't want to think about what Tony, or any of the others, might say about Phil keeping his survival a secret.

Then Clint wonders if maybe the others do know, and he's the only one who's been kept in the dark about it.

Clint pulls his hand back from Phil's shoulder. He starts to unbuckle his quiver. "So, um, you hungry? When was the last time you ate?"

Phil grimaces, but his body unclenches a bit. "They gave me some food on the plane - some kind of bar thing - but it tasted weird."

Clint nods in understanding. "You're from, what, the early to mid 80s? Most of our food has more preservatives and shit now. Maybe..." He does a quick mental run through of what's in his fridge and pantry. "I don't really have..." He walks over to his kitchen and starts opening drawers just in case they might have magically restocked themselves or something.

There's coffee. Oodles of Coffee. Protein bars. Protein shakes. Protein powder to add to other things. Vitamins in chewable and gummy form. Some cans of soup and boxes of various 'helpers'. 

"Uh..." Clint moves a few boxes just to find more boxes. "So... you feel like pizza?"

Phil, who had come up behind Clint to also peer at the sad state of Clint's grocery habits, snorts and rolls his eyes.

Clint has to resist the urge to not follow suit. Honestly, _teenagers_. He opens the drawer by the phone where he keeps all his take out menus and the various flyers food-related flyers he collects from people on the street. After shuffling through them for a moment, he lets out a triumphant little sound. "I knew I still had it," he says, pulling out the acid green flyer with the happy, little dancing tomatoes on it. "Okay, there's an organic pizza place a few blocks from here. Everything but peppers, right?"

"How did you..." Phil makes a sour face. "Nevermind."

Clint dials the pizza place and watches as Phil stalks across the apartment and throws himself back on the couch. Phil lifts his chin, and gives him a challenging look. Clint blinks first, turning his back to Phil, and placing their order in a softer voice than normal. He makes a note of the time of the delivery and the cost of the pizza, then hangs up and calls Simone. Clint spins some bullshit story trying to explain the sudden presence in his life of a sullen teenager who can't be left alone for any significant amount of time. He winces as he asks her to pick up some things from the market for him.

There's silence for a good minute and a half. Then...

"Clint," Simone says, her voice the perfect mix of amusement and admonishment, "if you can't tell me something because it's classified, just say it's classified. Don't try and make stuff up. You're not good at it."

Clint's free hand goes up to rub at the back of his neck. "Right. Sorry, Simone."

"That's okay. Will you be able to babysit on Friday night?"

Clint hazards a peek over his shoulder. Phil still looks thunderous. "Maybe," he says in a low voice. "I wasn't lying about the teenager part. I don't know if your kids should be exposed to that. Him. Can you ask again in a day or so?"

"Sure. I'll make a run to the store in the morning. See you around ten?"

Clint puts every bit of gratitude he has into thanking her. He hangs up and wonders if there's anyone else he could call. Then he berates himself because Phil isn't _that_ scary. Besides, he's going to have to deal with him again at some point. Squaring his shoulders and pulling on every bit of strength he has, Clint pastes what he hopes is a pleasant-looking smile on his face, turns around, and-

"Was that your girlfriend?" Phil asks, looking unimpressed.

"What? Who? Simone? No, she's a neighbor. I watch her kids sometimes."

Phil snorts. "So, is that what you do? You're a babysitter or something?"

"Sure, kid, I'm a babysitter. Why else would May have brought your ass here?"

There's a moment when Phil looks like he's going to rise to the bait. He stops himself, though, and the outrage building on his face morphs into something that looks distressingly familiar to an expression Clint used to see quite a lot. "She said we were close. That why she thought you knew future me was still alive?"

Seeing this rough draft of Phil's refined shrewdness makes something in Clint's chest ache. "Yeah," Clint says as he snags one of the remotes off the coffee table and aims it at the TV. He has an insane satellite package; there has got to be _something_ on. "Here, watch the magic picture box."

"I know what a television is," Phil says scathingly.

"Yeah, but you've never seen one like this. Look. Watch. The screen." Clint keeps his eyes trained on the rapidly changing channels. He can still feel Phil's gaze practically boring a hole through the side of his head.

"Did we break up, or something?" Phil asks.

Clint's head whips around so fast, he thinks he might have pulled something. "What?"

Phil studies him. "Is that why future me didn't tell you I was still alive? Was it a bad break up?"

"There was no-"

"Did you cheat on me?"

"What?! No."

"Did I cheat on you?"

"Coulson! Jesus Christ, we weren't..." Clint sharply shakes his head, then turns his eyes back to the screen. "There was no break up. Or cheating. We weren't together."

"It's okay if we were," Phil says. "I'm cool with it. And other people are cool with it now too, right?"

"I guess." Clint starts to aggressively press the buttons on his remote. He has no idea what any of these shows are. Why does he pay for this thing again?

"I mean, there was a TV on the plane, and it was tuned into this news show, and I managed to see something about marriage rights-"

"Stop right there," Clint says. "I am not getting into current events with you. If this is some kind of transference of consciousness type thing, and you find out too much, you might mess up the space/time continuum."

"What?"

"I'm not saying those words again. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Like I said, we weren't together."

Phil's quiet for a moment, then he says, "Prove it."

Clint snorts. "What the-"

"Kiss me."

Clint's head whips around again. "What?!"

"Do it." Phil twists so he's got one leg up on the couch and is facing Clint. "Kiss me, and if there's nothing there, then I'll believe you."

"Are you shitting me right now? You're, like, _twelve_."

"I'm nineteen, dickface. Now fucking kiss me."

"Gee, excuse me while I swoon. And my answer's no, by the way."

Phil sneers. "Are you scared?"

"Are you still in high school?" Clint quickly holds up a hand. "No, wait. Don't answer that. For God's sake, do _not_ answer that." He lets out a deep breath. "And, yeah, actually, I am kind of scared of what regular you might do to me if he suddenly has memories of the two of us making out. I'm not exactly your type."

Phil's eyes drop down to Clint's biceps. He licks his lips. "You are definitely my type."

Clint thinks about putting on a long sleeve tee shirt. Or a hoodie. Or... he's pretty sure there's a parka in the back of one of his closets. "Look, maybe _you_ you liked to mess around with guys from the wrong side of the tracks because you thought you were being a rebel, or it was cool, or it made your parents' eyes twitch. Whatever. Regular you was beyond that kind of thing, okay? Regular you liked people who were classy, and fancy, and well-bred, and..." Clint pauses when he's realized he's slipped into the past tense again. "Shit. _Likes_. You like those kinds of people."

"That sounds totally boring," Phil says with a huff.

Clint shrugs. He's definitely not going to comment on that.

"How can my love life be so totally boring if I'm a secret agent?"

"Finding a partner isn't always about constant excitement."

"Who wants a _partner_? I'm James Fucking Bond; I should be getting tail left and right."

Clint blinks at this strange, vaguely Phil-shaped creature beside him. "Just when I thought this conversation couldn't get more disturbing," he mutters. He shifts a bit and puts a few more inches of cushion between the two of them. 

The movement does not escape Phil's notice. He snorts. "What are you, a virgin?"

"No, I'm just severely weirded out right now. I mean, I have lived through some crazy fucking shit in my life. Crazy. Fucking. Shit. But finding out that in his younger years Phil Coulson was a... was a _you_ , that's..." Clint shakes his head. "Everything I know about the universe is just being shifted - again - so if you would kindly shut the fuck up for a few minutes, it would be appreciated."

Phil shuts the fuck up. Clint appreciates it. They watch a show about people competing to make the best cupcake.

Clint starts to seriously want a cupcake.

The peace lasts until the first commercial break, which Phil evidently sees as a sign that he can start talking again. "So, we really weren't together?"

Clint sighs. "We were not together. We were... friends."

"But I let you believe I was dead. For a year. That doesn't sound like something a friend would do."

Clint's still holding the remote. He imagines, just for an instant, what it would feel like to chuck it at Phil's head. "Then I guess I misjudged what we were to each other, didn't I?" he says grimly.

Phil's quiet for a long time after that. 

Just when the final baking battle starts, there's a knock at the door. Clint startles slightly at the sound, then he rises from the couch and heads to the stand where he keeps his wallet. He pauses for a moment, looks back at Phil, then makes a detour to his weapons closet. There's another knock.

"Hold, on," Clint yells. "I'm comin'." He grabs one of his handguns, inserts a clip, then tucks it in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. It's not his ideal weapon, and it's not an ideal place to keep it, but it's not just him in the apartment anymore, and Clint's not going to answer the door without some kind of weapon. Just in case.

He ignores Phil's wide eyes and goes to the front of the apartment. After a quick glance through the spyhole, he opens the door, revealing a mildly nervous pizza guy and a very focused mutt.

"Sorry, dude," the pizza guy says, "it followed me in and-"

"It's cool," Clint says. "Lucky, get your furry little behind in here."

Lucky ignores him, his one-eyed gaze staying glued to the box in the pizza guy's hands.

Clint sighs. He hands the pizza guy his money and takes the box. Now, Lucky's more than happy to enter the apartment. He grins his little doggy grin and wags his tail because he knows that Clint has a soft heart, and a softer head, and will undoubtedly be sharing in the melted cheese bounty. Clint shuts the door and takes the pizza to the island in the kitchen. Lucky stays right on his heels.

"You have a dog?" Phil asks. He approaches them slowly, not that it matters since Lucky's attention is still captivated by the magic box of yum.

"Kind of," Clint says. "Technically. I guess. He sort of belongs to the building. I suppose." He gets out two plates - because he can be civilized, _thank you_ \- and tears a few sheets off of the paper towel roll. "If you want to eat on the couch, watch him like a freakin' hawk. He is not above trying to take food right out of your mouth."

"He looks like he got hit by a bus," Phil says, still eying the dog with trepidation.

"It was a car, actually. And, before that, he got hit by some mafia types in tracksuits. No loud noises and no sudden movements, okay? Especially on his blind side."

"You rescued him?" Phil asks. He settles himself on one of the stools at the island.

"We kind of rescued each other." Clint places his gun on the counter, grabs a coulple of bottles of water from the fridge, then takes the seat across from Phil. Lucky plants his butt right beside Clint's stool.

Phil eyes stay on Clint's weapon for a moment, then he opens the pizza box and helps himself to a couple of slices. "You do that a lot?"

"What? Rescue dogs?"

"Or people?"

"Not really." Clint watches as Phil takes his first bite. The kid makes a face as he chews, but he swallows it, and tears off some more. "Sorry," Clint says. "About the food."

Phil shrugs. "It doesn't taste bad. Really. Just different. And don't try and avoid the question."

"I didn't try and avoid anything. I said, not really. If someone's in trouble, I'll try and help them out, but-"

"Like the A-Team or something?"

Clint nearly chokes on a mushroom. "The A-Team," he says with a wheeze. "Yeah, sure. Let's go with that."

Phil's eyes narrow. "You making fun of me?"

"No, I'm making fun of your taste in television shows." Clint pauses. "Wait. Actually, The A-Team was the shit back in the day. Never mind."

"I'm just trying to understand what it is you do," Phil says with a huff. "Scary lady brought me to you and said you could keep me safe. You've got your closet of death over there, and you're not shy about using projectiles. But you also have a one-eyed dog, and you babysit for your neighbors." 

"I'm a mystery wrapped in an enigma," Clint says easily. "You can try and figure me out, but many have failed." He doesn't add that regular Phil was one of the ones who succeeded.

"You're too young to be retired," Phil says, his keen gaze studying Clint's face. "Unless something happened to you, and... Oh." Phil's eyes drop to his plate, and he picks at a piece of onion.

"Oh, what?" Clint says with no little amount of apprehension. He should probably leave well enough alone, especially if Phil's decided to be quiet. But there's something in that little 'oh' that makes the back of Clint's neck itch. "Come on, dude, you were on a roll. You're not gonna give up so fast, are you?" 

Phil lifts his gaze to Clint. It's an odd feeling, seeing those sharp eyes in that youthful face. "The thing that happened to you," Phil says. "What you talked about before? The terrifying thing. Did it mess you up in the head or something? Is that why future me didn't tell you he was alive?"

Clint really doesn't know why he's surprised that Phil managed to put everything together. He should have known better than to underestimate any version of this man before him. 

"Am I right?" Phil asks, cocking his head to one side, and looking at Clint like someone who didn't just deliver the verbal equivalent of a gut punch.

Clint thinks that it's a testament to his increasing maturity, and moral fortitude, and months of therapy, that he can remain sitting at the island, calmly eating his pizza instead of making a run for it like he'd wanted to do when May first brought this perceptive little jackass to his home. 

"I mean, I just..." Phil trails off. He grimaces and starts picking at his pizza again. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. My mom always says I have zero tact."

"She's not wrong," Clint says roughly. He gets up and goes to the fridge again. This time he grabs a beer.

"Hey, can I have-"

"No," Clint returns to his seat, twists the cap off of the bottle, and takes a healthy swig. Later, after he puts the kid to bed, maybe he'll get out the hard stuff that's in the cabinet above the sink.

"I didn't meant to make you mad," Phil says.

"I'm not mad."

"Upset, then."

"Do I look upset?" 

"Yeah," Phil says softly. "You do."

"Well, I'm not," Clint says with a faux brightness that he certainly doesn't feel.

"It's just-"

"Kid, can you-"

"If that's the reason future me didn't fill you in on stuff, then he's an asshole," Phil says quickly. Two spots of color bloom on his cheeks and his eyes drop to his plate again.

"He's not..." Clint stops himself from completing the automatic denial. "Actually, he could be a gigantic asshole." His lips twist up into the ghost of a smile. "But he was also loyal, and brave, and-"

"Don't defend him." Phil frowns. "He's an asshole, and what he did to you was shitty."

Clint stares at him for a moment, taking in his flushed cheeks and Coulson-esque scowl. He's not used to having someone stick up for him, and it takes a moment for him to decide to be appreciative. "Okay," he says softly. "I agree."

Phil nods. And neither one of them broach the subject again.

 

*******

 

After dinner, Clint, Phil, and Lucky head back to the couch. There's another cooking show on, and Clint doesn't bother to look for something else. They all seem subdued, even Lucky, who should be feeling pretty good after polishing off leftover crust from both Clint and Phil's plates. Soon enough, Phil starts to yawn, though he tries to stifle them at first.

Clint rises and lifts his arms up into a stretch. He decides to ignore how Phil's eyes zero in on the skin of his belly that's momentarily exposed. "Let me change the sheets, and then you can crash, okay?"

"We gonna share your bed, then?" Phil asks. He licks his lips, like the hungry expression he's got on his face isn't lewd enough.

Clint sighs. "No. And stop that. You're taking the bed, and I'm taking the couch."

"I can take the couch," Phil says, dropping all pretense of salaciousness. "I don't want to put you out even more."

"Nope, you're taking the bed. End of discussion. Listen to your elder, or whatever." Clint starts to head to the stairs that lead up to his sleeping area. "And stop looking at my ass." There's a snort from the youngster, and Clint can't help but grin as he takes the steps two at a time. He strips his bed, then gets his other set of sheets from the laundry basket by his dresser. He shakes them out and ignores the pang he gets from knowing that he won't be able to sleep on April freshness again until he gets back to the laundry mat.

"Hope the little punk appreciates this," he mutters as he fluffs his pillows.

Bed made, Clint's about to head back to the living area, when he stops and grabs a few more things from the basket. He jogs down the stairs and tosses the clothes in his hands at Phil's head.

"Here," he says, "so you don't have to sleep in whoever's clothes those are."

"Agent Dickhead," Phil says absently as he uncrumples his newly borrowed shirt. "Captain America? Why the hell do you have a Captain America tee shirt? Don't you have anything I can wear that's, I don't know, not lame?"

Clint takes a step backwards. "What did you just say?"

"Captain America. Totally lame." Phil rolls his eyes. " _God_."

"You... But you..." Clint shakes his head. "No, but you..."

"No, but I what?"

"You..." Clint takes a deep, steadying breath and shoves this new facet of teen Phil out of his mind as best as he can. A de-aged, still alive Phil Coulson - fine, whatever. A Phil Coulson who's _not_ a Cap fan - too weird to even contemplate. "Pick out something else if you want. Anything on the floor's already been worn, but something from the laundry basket or dresser should be safe. You might want to sniff it first, though."

The lewd look comes back. "So, you want me riffling through your drawers?"

"Knock yourself out, man. I'm pretty sure all the blades I have stashed in with my underwear are sheathed, but you don't need all ten fingers, right?"

Phil stares at him suspiciously, and Clint can almost pinpoint the moment he decides to not risk anything. Phil keeps side-eying him all the way to the bathroom. Once the door closes, Clint sighs and collapses onto the couch. Lucky readjusts his sprawl so he can lay his head on Clint's thigh.

"My life's fucking strange, Luck," Clint mutters as he lets his fingers scratch through golden fur.

Clint zones until Phil comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later. He's got the sweatpants on, but he's not wearing either borrowed shirt. There's something discomforting about seeing this Phil half naked. There's a smattering of hair, but otherwise his bare chest is pale and skinny, despite how Phil is obviously trying to puff himself up. That ache that Clint's been feeling on and off all evening is back with a vengeance. This is not his Coulson, and it hurts.

"Sure I can't interest you in..." Phil starts to saunter over to the couch, but his steps falter. "What's wrong? Are you..." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh. Right. Future me's an asshole."

Clint rubs at his eyes. "Kid-"

"Don't call me kid," Phil snaps. "I'm not a kid."

Clint looks at him, at the fierce expression on his face, and his unscarred skin, and the way his bones are so prominent in a frame that hasn't quite finished filling out yet. "Try and get some sleep," Clint says.

Phil's fingers play at the waistband of his pants, but his voice reveals it to be a nervous gesture and not a tease. "Are you okay?"

"Pretty sure I should be asking you that question."

"Honestly? I'm still not entirely convinced this whole thing isn't because of some crappy 'shrooms I had the other night." Phil shrugs like he didn't just unravel a little more of Clint's sanity.

"Uh huh," Clint says. "Well. If this isn't just a bad trip, I guess I'll see you in the morning." He turns his attention back to the tv, and he does not watch Phil go up the stairs, and he does not think about Phil in his bed. He does mindlessly watch more cooking competition shows - seriously, how many of those things are there?! - until he drifts off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating on this has now changed thanks to a masturbation scene in this chapter. Also, Clint is an irresponsible dog-owner, there is objectification, an attempted and unwelcome kiss, and quite a lot of Clint-based angst

When Clint wakes up, his neck's at an angle he's sure to be feeling later, Lucky's using him as a body pillow, and Phil's trying to sneak down the stairs. The slight glow Clint's getting through his eyelids tells him the sun's up. He had thought if the kid was still going to try and sneak out it would be during the night, but maybe Phil didn't want to try to navigate a strange city in the dark.

Or maybe he's not trying to sneak out. 

Clint stays still and silent as Phil moves around the apartment. He hears the bathroom door close, and a few minutes after that the pipes groan, and the door opens. He hears Phil walk away from him and into the kitchen. He listens as Phil putters around for a bit, opening cabinets and pulling out drawers. 

Clint catches himself as he starts to frown. Phil's not going to find anything dangerous - Clint made sure his weapons were secure before he threw out the empty pizza box last night - but he still maybe shouldn't be unsupervised. Does he know how to work an oven? Does he know to not put metal in a microwave? Does he know what a microwave is?!

As Clint tries to think back as to what kitchen technology was like in the early 80s, a wonderful gurgle and hiss fills the apartment. Clint's eyes open involuntarily.

"Coffee," he says gruffly. He sits up, dislodging Lucky, who grumbles for a bit before he shoves himself into the space between Clint and the back of the couch. 

"Morning," Phil calls out, his voice just a rough as Clint's. "Hope you don't mind, but..."

"Coffee," Clint says again. He gets to his feet and, after a quick detour to the bathroom, and another detour to let Lucky out, he takes his place beside Phil at the kitchen counter. 

Phil's eyebrows are up. "Shouldn't you go with him?"

Clint yawns. "Who?"

"Lucky? Your dog? Shouldn't you take care of him?"

"He can take care of himself." Or he'll find someone from one the other apartments to do it for him. Clint kind of likes that Lucky isn't really dependent on him for anything more than the occasional vet bill or food, and even then he's pretty sure that several of the other tenants are feeding him under the table.

"No, I meant..." Phil sighs. "Never mind."

Clint blinks a few times and gives Phil a once-over. He's still got on the sweats from last night, but he's also put on an old, threadbare tee shirt that Clint wasn't even sure he still owned. "Where the hell did you find that?" he asks, pointing at the light blue material.

Phil gazes down at himself. "It was stuffed into the leg of a pair of sweatpants in the back of one of your drawers. Do you have any idea how long I had to search for something that wasn't some shade of purple?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

"What's wrong with purple?" Clint says. "I like purple. It's a good color. Solid color. Dependable color."

Phil purses his lips disdainfully. "How can a color be dependable?"

"How can... you just... shut your mouth." Clint, really not wanting to look at Phil's face at the moment, turns and gets down two mugs from the cabinet. He grimaces at what he finds inside them and hurries to wash out the dust and bug bits before Phil sees.

"You're not your best first thing in the morning, are you?"

Clint grunts, and shoves one of the now squeaky clean mugs at him. Phil takes the mug, and the little bastard puts it up to his face to inspect the washing job Clint just did.

Seemingly satisfied that Clint was able to use soap and water to his exacting standards, Phil deigns to pour himself some coffee from the just filled carafe, then he offers to pour Clint some as well. Clint mumbles his thanks and takes a sip. The coffee is steaming hot, but the pain is totally worth the de-fogging of Clint's brain. Phil seems to be on the same page. For a few moments, they stand there quietly, hips against the counter, mugs lifting to lips, contemplating the morning.

It hits Clint, from one sip to the next, just how often he had found himself in this kind of situation with Phil Coulson. Not in his kitchen, obviously, and it was usually just Clint who was sporting an epic case of bedhead. But a shared stillness over an early morning cup of coffee, whether in a safehouse or office, that was a _them_ kind of thing. 

At least, he thought it was. Now, he wonders if he had been intruding all those times. If Coulson had always just been too polite to tell Clint to fuck off. How much did Clint read into their relationship over the years? How much of their camaraderie was simply wishful thinking on Clint's part? It's not a pleasant thought, and definitely not something Clint wants to examine too closely, especially not in his present company.

"Hey, you okay?" Phil asks, already somehow picking up on Clint's distress. Then again, Clint's not firing on all cylinders quite yet; he's probably emoting all over the place.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine." Clint tries to school his face into something that doesn't look like he's questioning what had been one of his most dependable relationships.

"You don't look fine. You look like someone just... Oh." Phil frowns into his mug. "I've made you upset again, haven't I?"

"No, you haven't."

"Future me, then."

"No, more like... I'm just thinking about stuff." Clint rustles up a smile. "Look, my issues are not your problem."

"But it's my fault you're upset," Phil says stubbornly.

"It's..." Clint sighs. "Dude, you've got to stop feeling bad about whatever a future version of yourself may or may not have done to contribute to my sucky mood, okay? The person you may be in a few decades is definitely not the person you are now." Clint grimaces. "In so many ways. So, quit it. You're bringing down the room."

Phil stares at him for long enough that it starts to get kind of creepy. "Fine," he says. "I won't mention it again."

"Good. Awesome." Clint takes another swig of coffee. "So, what do you want to do today, that, you know, doesn't involve leaving the apartment?"

Phil's sigh is pure dissatisfaction, but at least he doesn't seem to want to press the issue. Yet. "Watch more TV?" he says listlessly.

"Hey, don't knock TV. TV is awesome."

"Yeah, I really enjoy watching people create food I'll never get a chance to eat." Phil huffs. "Can't we check out something else? Anything else?"

"I'm sure there's something-" Clint scratches at his cheek and makes a face at the amount of hair he finds. It's one thing to look scruffy - Clint thinks he can make scruffy look damn good - but he's pretty sure if he doesn't do some kind of grooming, he's headed towards deranged hobo-land - and that look doesn't work for anyone. "Ugh. Okay. Um...tell you what, watch whatever food show is on while I grab a shower, then I'll scrounge up something for breakfast, then we'll see what else might be on. That sound okay?"

Phil raises an eyebrow. "Are you actually asking me that because I have a choice?"

"Uh. No."

"Then, yeah," Phil says, sarcasm dripping liberally from his words, "that sounds great."

"Phil-"

Phil snorts and stalks off in the direction of the couch.

"This is why I'm never having kids," Clint mumbles.

Phil plops himself on the couch, crosses his arms over his chest, and stares at the TV. He doesn't acknowledge Clint in the slightest.

"Yeah. Great," Clint says under his breath. He downs the rest of the coffee in his mug then heads to the bathroom. "Just watch the kid for a few days," he says after he closes the door. "How hard could it be? You owe it to Phil." He snorts. "I don't owe Phil _shit_." Clint's surprised by the vehemence that comes out with that last sentence. He catches sight of his face in the mirror above the sink, and he really doesn't like what he sees. 

Yeah, the partial, unkempt beard isn't a great look, but it's the cold, hardness in his eyes that gets him. Clint hates when he looks like that. It's too close to the face that he used to see in mirrors all the time back before Fury scooped him up and set him on the right path. And it's really wrong that Phil Coulson, of all people, should be the cause of that look now.

Clint shakes his head and avoids looking at his reflection again as he strips off. With his clothes crumpled on the floor, Clint has a sudden, awful thought, and he quickly locks the door. Phil might be pissed at him right now, but Clint's knows that the kid's mood can change on a dime, and he really wouldn't put it past the little hornball to 'accidentally' try to walk in on him naked.

Hornball. Yet another thing Clint never thought he'd associate with Phil Coulson. Along with druggie, and... didn't the kid mention he had to go to court or something?

Clint sighs as he turns on the water. He waits for it to go from freezing to something slightly less than scalding before he gets in the tub. With the curtain closed and hot water beating down on his back and shoulders, Clint braces his hands against the tiles and lets himself just exist for a few minutes. 

He dips his head, stretching out muscles made sore from the night spent on the couch, and finds his gaze drawn to his dick. Clint's gotten into the habit of taking care of himself in the shower, and he must have created some kind of Pavlovian thing because he's already flushed and stiffening in anticipation. There's a moment's hesitation before he squirts some body wash onto his palm and takes himself in hand. He works himself quickly, letting his mind drift through his recent favorite porny scenarios. He's just settled onto a very nice - and unfortunately completely fabricated - fantasy of Steve and Thor stripped down to their skivvies and sparring, when a thin, pale chest slips into his mind's eye. Clint doesn't even have time to panic before teen Phil morphs into regular Phil, and he comes to the image of a receding hairline, and crows feet, and a crooked nose, and laugh lines bracketing a soft, pleased smile. 

Phil used to feature pretty regularly as Clint's masturbation fodder, back before... Apparently, Clint's subconscious is more than happy to accept his resurrection at face value, at least where getting off is concerned. On the bright side, at least he didn't end up fantasizing about a teenager or a dead guy, so Clint makes a conscious decision to not feel guilty about anything.

Really.

Mostly.

Clint, realizing just how long he's lingered, quickly scrubs his skin and hair. It's only after he shuts off the water and opens the curtain that he becomes aware of the mistake he's made. The only clothes he brought into the bathroom are the ones he had been wearing. Unless he wants to pick up his old clothes from the floor and put them on again, he's going to have to brave the horny teenager gauntlet wearing just a towel.

Silently calling himself a bunch of names - that are mostly some variation on 'idiot' - Clint dries himself off and wraps the towel around his hips. He shaves in record time, miraculously managing to not nick himself, and, after making sure his towel is as secure as it can get, he throws open the door and strides into the living area of the apartment. He keeps his head held high, and is totally prepared for whatever comments might get thrown at him.

Phil, still sitting on the couch, turns big, shining eyes towards Clint and says, "Captain America's alive!"

Except that. Clint's not prepared for that. "What?" he says, his steps faltering and his stomach sinking.

"Captain America's alive!" Phil blinks "And you're almost _naked_ , wow." Those shining eyes turn predatory in an instant, and Clint thinks about retreating back into the bathroom.

"What do you... What have you... Stop looking at me like that!" Clint tightly grips the front of his towel. "How do you know that about Captain America?" Clint looks to the TV. An ad for an Anderson Cooper show is playing. Great. CNN. It's coming up on the anniversary of the Battle of Manhattan, and it's not that surprising that networks, especially the 24/7 ones, are going to start to saturate the airwaves with specials and documentaries. It also shouldn't be surprising, Clint supposes, that Phil would end up finding one.

"Food's boring, so I switched it to something better," Phil says with a shrug. His gaze goes all over Clint's bare chest and abdomen. "You have an amazing bod. Seriously."

"Don't say 'bod'," Clint says sharply. "It's weird."

Phil blinks a few times again, and seems to shake himself out of his hormonal haze. "No, but Captain America's alive! He's alive, and he fought these, like, alien things, and _holy shit_!" He punctuates his statement with a few flappy hand movements. 

"You shouldn't be watching that," Clint says. He moves towards the couch, intent on grabbing the remote, which Phil promptly stuffs under his butt.

"Come and get it," Phil says with a leer and a lick of his lips. Evidently even a resurrected Captain America and aliens can only hold his attention for so long with faced with Clint wearing just a towel. At some point in the future, Clint's going to let himself feel pretty smug about that. Now, though, teen Phil's interest is way more annoying than complimentary.

"Stop doing that thing with your face" Clint says. "I mean it." He scrubs his free hand - cause the other one's not leaving the towel - through his still wet hair. "How the hell did you even manage to work the receiver?!"

Phil's face goes flat. "You mean, how did I manage to press the little buttons on the oblong plastic thing in roughly the same way you did last night? Gee. No clue."

"You learned it from watching me," Clint says. "Great. My life has become an anti-drug PSA, and I'm the dad."

"You want me to call you daddy?" Phil says with a faux innocence that's doesn't touch the heat still in his eyes. "I can do that."

Clint stares at him in horror, then makes a sound that's uncomfortably close to a squeak, before he turns and sprints up the stairs to get to his clothes. He dresses in record time, but spends a few minutes hesitating before going back down to the living room because Phil Coulson just called him _daddy_ in a non-ironic kind of way, and his brain is having a really hard time processing that.

The sad thing is, Clint's not sure what he's more bothered by: the knowledge that Phil was - _is_ \- a kinky fucker, or the fact that Clint is technically old enough to be teen Phil's father.

Clint sits on the edge of his bed and puts his head between his knees. He breathes deeply and steadily for a few minutes, and he's actually starting to feel better... Then the documentary still playing downstairs starts talking about the Avenger's _mysterious archer_ , and the nightmare continues.

Clint bounds down the stairs, but the damage has already been done. Phil's eyes are as wide as saucers, but at least the lecherous look is nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, my God," Phil says reverently.

Clint curses and internally debates actually going for the remote, which is probably still under Phil's butt. Instead, he stalks over the to the TV, shoves the entire entertainment center away from the wall, and unplugs everything. He lets the cords drop to the floor, then he turns around to face the music.

Phil's still staring at him. "You're a-"

"Don't say it," Clint says with a wince.

"But that was you, right?" Phil says. "The archer guy? They called you Hawkeye."

"I... don't know what you're talking about." 

Phil gives him a scathing look, which is actually way better than the wonderment he was aiming at Clint just a second ago. "Really? Because there are _that_ many people practicing archery in whatever-the-hell-year-this-is?"

"You'd be surprised," Clint says. "It's become a very popular sport."

"Okay," Phil says, "there are that many people practicing archery, who also happen to work with badass super spies?"

Well, he's kind of got Clint there. "Uh..."

"You fought with Captain America!" Phil exclaims, jumping up from his seat. "Aliens tried to invade the planet, and you guys..." His face rapidly pales, and he falls back to the couch. "Shit. Aliens tried to invade the planet."

"Yeah," Clint says.

"There are aliens. Real aliens."

Clint starts to cautiously approaches him. "Yeah, there are."

"And they tried to invade the planet."

"Yeah, they did." Clint gingerly perches on the edge of the couch. Phil's not looking that great, and Clint wants to offer comfort, but he also doesn't want to get that close. "You okay?"

"I..." Phil shakes his head. "This is kind of heavy."

"This is why I wanted you to keep watching the cooking shows," Clint says.

Phil's lips turn up into the ghost of a smile. "I rarely do what other people want me to do," he says softly.

"Yeah, I'm getting that."

Phil looks straight at Clint, and Clint... Clint's stuck looking back, because even though the face is different, those eyes, Phil's eyes, are exactly the same.

"You're a hero," Phil says.

"Aww, kid, I'm not-"

"You're a superhero."

"No, c'mon, don't use the 'S' word."

"You fought with Captain America."

"I thought Captain America was lame?" Clint raises an eyebrow and is amused to see a flush steal over Phil's cheeks.

"Shut up," Phil says. He ducks his head for a moment, but only a moment, before he's focused on Clint again. "You're a reluctant hero with a troubled past and a heart of gold. And you're hot as fucking sin. And I really want to kiss you right now."

Phil darts forward, but Clint's faster - and he's fueled by panic and more 'nope' than one person should feel in their lifetime. He catapults himself off the couch - there might be a handspring involved too, he's not sure - and from one blink to the next, he's halfway across the room. Phil stands up. Clint takes a step backward.

"What's your problem?" Phil asks, frustration clear in his voice. "You want me; I know you do."

"I do not!" Clint says. He backs up another step for good measure.

"You do too! I've caught you looking at me." Phil puts his hands on his hips. "You've been watching me."

Clint's about to issue another denial, but then he wonders if maybe he has been watching Phil more than he should. More than what would be normal. "Maybe I have," Clint says, "but you... I know you're not _him_ , not really, not my Phil, but you look... And you - _he_ \- was dead, and I guess-"

"I thought you and old me weren't together," Phil says accusingly.

"We weren't."

"They why did you say _my Phil_? Huh? Why would you..." Phil's face softens suddenly, and Clint yet again curses his perceptiveness, because he knows what's coming. "You weren't together, but you wanted to be, didn't you? Oh fuck, you were-"

"Stop," Clint says sharply. "Just stop. Please." Phil, miraculously enough, listens to him, but what he wants to say - what he was going to say - is still written all over his face. That stupid, young face. "Like I said before," Clint continues, hoping he's finding the right words to shut this thing down before Phil can pick at anymore of his heart, "I don't want you to feel bad about my issues. But nothing is ever going to happen between the two of us, Phil. Nothing. Even if the overall situation wasn't fucked beyond belief, you are still way, _way_ too young for me. Please say you understand."

Phil looks like he's gearing up to say something, but he closes his mouth and storms towards the bathroom instead. The sound of the door slamming echos through the apartment, and it makes Clint flinch. He stands where he is for a moment, lost and lonely, and feeling more wrung out now than from his last three therapy sessions combined. He takes a few deep breaths and pulls himself together then heads to the kitchen. Even if Phil hates him now, or worse, feels _sorry_ for him, he's still going to have to eat eventually.

Clint's just finished sprinkling some sugar on top of two mugs of instant oatmeal when the bathroom door opens. Phil slinks over to the kitchen and slides onto the same stool he used the previous night. His face looks freshly scrubbed, but there are two spots of color high on his cheeks, and he keeps focusing his eyes on everything but Clint.

"Here," Clint says as he slides one of the oatmeal mugs over to Phil. "Don't worry; I washed it first." He passes Phil a spoon, then takes his own seat. Clint idly stirs his oatmeal, and watches through his lashes as Phil does the same. "You know," he says after another minute of uncomfortable silence, "you can ask me questions, if you like."

Phil looks up at that.

"About Cap," Clint quickly clarifies.

Phil huffs out a little breath. He could be amused, or irritated; it's kind of hard to tell.

"Not to sound too full of myself or anything," Clint says. "but we've hung out a few times."

"You mean after you helped save the world?" Phil asks softly.

"Yeah, then, and a couple other times after that. You would not believe how much food that guy can pack away. And people keep trying to hand him babies. It's the weirdest thing."

They sit there, eating crappy oatmeal out of coffee mugs while Clint spins tales from the few instances he'd met Steve Rogers. It's easy enough to pass the time. Clint and Steve aren't BFFs by any stretch of the imagination, but they fought together, they bled together, they ate shawarma together. That would be enough for anyone to form a bond. Clint carefully skirts around the time they spent together at Coulson's memorial service, but everything else is fair game.

Clint's almost managed to talk himself out when there's a knock on his door. He checks the clock on the microwave. It's probably Simone with his groceries, but Clint does the whole gun in the waistband thing again, just in case. He looks through the spyglass and lets himself relax at the familiar, open, and friendly face he sees staring back at him. 

"You're awesome, Simone," Clint says in lieu of a greeting as he opens the door. He fistbumps the two little ones flanking their mom, then takes the overflowing grocery bags from Simone's hands. "How much do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"What? No way, let me give you-"

"Clint, just tell me you can watch over these two Friday night, and we'll call it even. Seriously, you do not want to know how much babysitters cost. A couple bags of groceries is a bargain."

Clint cranes his neck and checks on Phil, who's still sitting quietly at the island. He looks back at Simone. "Barring anything too insane, I should be free."

They exchange a few more pleasantries. Clint offers to pay for the food again, but Simone glares him into submission. He still feels like a heel, though, and he decides that maybe, if he's done looking after Phil as well, he'll take the boys someplace special on Friday. Maybe he'll treat them to a movie or something like that. 

After they say their goodbyes, Clint takes the bags over to the kitchen and stars pawing through them.

"Veggies, veggies, fruit, chicken. Oh, hey, toothbrush." He launches the item at Phil, who catches it before it hits him in the face. "Man, Simone is awesome."

"Yeah," Phil says absently, "she's great. You do know how to use all that stuff, right?"

"I don't do any kind of gourmet shit, but I can cook a couple of chicken breasts, thanks."

"Sorry."

"Nah," Clint says with a chuckle as he starts putting stuff away, "Judging by the state of my cabinets, you have the right to be worried. I guess, when it's just me, there's really no point in actually cooking anything."

"That's not... I wasn't _worried_ , I just..." He sighs, and it sounds so disappointed, Clint has to turn around and check on him. "I'm gonna go back and watch TV again, okay?"

"Yeah, sure." Clint doesn't like the solemn look Phil has on his face. "Give me a minute to get everything squared in here, and I'll find a movie for us to watch. Or I could tell you more stories about Cap?"

"No," Phil says, "I think I've heard enough of your stories for now." 

The sedate and serious way Phil says the words takes out some of the sting, but they still smart a bit. "Sure, kid, wouldn't want to bore you." Clint turns back to his groceries and, after a moment, he hears Phil walk away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out to be the most emotionally taxing thing I've ever written. After this is over, it's nothing but fluff for me for months, I swear.
> 
> Warnings: Talk of PTSD, Phil's sketchy past, and Clint's sketchier past

When Clint manages to find Raiders of the Lost Ark playing on one of the movie channels, it seems the Fates are... well, maybe not smiling on him, but they're at least looking down on him with a slight fondness.

"Looks like we've missed the first couple of minutes," Clint says to a still quiet Phil, "but this is cool, right? Have you seen this yet?"

"Of course I've seen it," Phil says. "I've even got it on tape."

"So, that means you like it, right?" Clint purposefully keeps his voice light and ignores the little churlish glare Phil sends his way.

"It's okay," Phil says.

"Okay?!" Clint says as settles himself cross legged on the couch, keeping a cushion's worth of space between him and Phil. "Please. It's awesome. I love this movie. The whole trilogy, actually. And, yes, I still refer to it as a trilogy, because, as far as I'm concerned, the fourth one never actually..." Clint trails off when he notices the look on Phil's face. "What?"

" _There are four Indiana Jones movies_?!" Phil looks like he wants to start doing the hand-flapping thing again. "I know that a second one was gonna come out soon; I've seen trailers and stuff for it, but _four_?!"

"Uh..." Clint guiltily looks between Phil and the TV. "Listen, kid-"

"Do you have them?" Phil asks. "Or, I know movies are really expensive, so if you don't own them, can we rent them?" He's looking just as excited at the prospect of multiple Indiana Jones movies as he did when he found out Cap was alive. And Clint...

Well, Clint had wanted to keep Phil away from watching anything that might be tricky or difficult to explain to a kid from the 80s. But, technically, since the Indiana Jones movies all take place in the 30s and 40s there shouldn't be any future shock problems. And, it would be kind of cool to see all of them again. And, it would also be kind of nice for Phil to keep that smile on his face for a little while.

"Yeah," Clint says as he unfolds himself from the couch, "I own them. Let's have a marathon." He grabs the Blu-ray set that Nat got him for Christmas a few years back and opens the case.

"This is gonna be great," Phil says, actually bouncing in his seat a bit. "Whoa, are those LaserDisc? Are _all_ of those things LaserDisk?! Geez, your collection must have cost a fortune."

"Uh, no and not really." Clint hustles to the player and puts the first movie in. "This is something different. Technology has kind of changed. _A lot_."

"Oh. My stepdad has a LaserDisc player. He won't let me use it though. He says it's too expensive for me to just fuck it up, so I'm stuck with a VCR."

Clint can't help but remember from a few early 80s foster homes that VCRs were kind of expensive too. He had assumed Phil was well off - there was something about the man's carriage and demeanor that kind of spoke to it - but he didn't know Phil was _that_ well off. He also didn't know that Phil had a stepdad. He grabs the right remote and, as he settles back on the couch, he has an internal debate over just how far he should try and snoop. On one hand, manipulating teen Phil for knowledge was kind of low. On the other hand, adult Phil had faked his own death, so fuck him.

"Stepdad, huh?" Clint says nonchalantly as he pulls up the Blu-ray menu. "He sounds like kind of a-

"He's a jerk," Phil says, right on cue. "But... he might have his uses. I guess."

"Okay." Clint holds his thumb over the 'enter' button and waits.

"He's a banker, and he thinks he's God's gift," Phil continues after a few seconds of silence. "And he thinks that just because he has money, and he married my mom he can tell me what to do, which is totally bogus."

"Totally," Clint says with an understanding nod.

"Not everyone is cut out for college, right?" Phil turns on the couch, and Clint gets hit with the full force of his puppy eyes.

"I certainly wasn't," Clint says. Like college had even been in the neighborhood of options for him anyway.

"And just because I don't have a job where I have to wear a tie, or a name badge, or something, doesn't make me a deadbeat." Phil puffs himself up. "I'm in a band. We've had gigs. And, yeah, maybe we've only gotten paid in beer so far, but it's all about exposure, you know?"

Clint does not know. But he can imagine. And what he is imagining is filing him with the kind of glee he never knew existed. A band. When Phil Coulson was a teenager he wanted to make it big with his garage band. Clint can feel a snicker forming, but he swallows it down because while this might be prime teasing material for regular Phil, Clint doesn't want to extinguish the spark that's come into teen Phil's eyes. "A band, huh? What instrument do you play?"

"Bass. Just like John Paul Jones."

"John Paul... You're a Zepplin fan?" Clint had always thought his Phil was allergic to any kind of music produced after 1945.

"Hell, yeah. They're totally righteous."

"Oh, yeah," Clint says as he reels internally. "Totally."

"Anyway, my stepdad's a dick. He keeps talking about how I'm never going to-" Phil unexpectedly goes silent. A blank look comes over his face, then his expression falls dramatically. Clint finds himself, almost involuntarily, reaching over and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Clint asks. 

"Shit," Phil says. "Shit, shit, shit."

Clint gently squeezes the tense muscle under his fingers. This Phil can be a brat, no question, but the _look_ he's wearing right now is making Clint want to punch something. "Seriously, dude, what is it?"  
.   
Phil turns his face away, but he doesn't shrug off Clint's touch. "He was right, wasn't he?"

"Who? Your stepdad?"

"He said what I was doing with my life was useless," Phil says roughly. "That it would never amount to anything. And he was right."

"That's bullshit, Phil," Clint says with no small amount of heat. "The stuff that you've accomplished in your life-"

"Doesn't count!" Phil turns wet eyes back to Clint. "All that stuff, _he_ did that! Old me. Future me. _This_ me," Phil jabs his thumb at his chest, "hasn't accomplished anything, and I never will."

"Phil, I don't..." Clint licks his lips. "I don't-"

"Get it?" Phil says with a sneer, as he knocks Clint's hand away. "Then I'll explain, and I'll use small words. Somehow, in turning into the Phil Coulson you knew, I disappeared."

Clint flinches. "Phil-"

"You were surprised I was in a band. Music's my life. You were surprised I like Led Zepplin. They're my favorite group. You had no idea how much I like Raiders. You... you... You know me as a _completely_ different person because the person I am right now don't exist anymore."

"Phil, stop," Clint says forcefully before Phil can get even more agitated. He gets what Phil is saying, and he understands why he's upset, but how the hell is he supposed to tell an already fragile kid that the stuff that's earth-shatteringly important when you're in your teens, generally doesn't survive the decades? "Look, I... I thought we had established that you and I weren't really that close."

Phil somehow gets even more distressed. " _Clint_ -"

"No, no, I didn't say that to..." Clint shakes his head. There's a _reason_ he's the guy who spends most of his time alone on rooftops. "Look, I think... Cards on the table time, okay? I was interested in you. I was... crushing. You were very crush-worthy." Clint has to smile at the blush that steals over Phil's cheeks. "And, I think, maybe, in the year since you..." Clint sharply shakes his head. "Anyway, I think, I might have built up our relationship as being something more than it was. And that's totally on me."

"Really?" Phil says flatly.

"Yeah. I guess what I'm trying to tell you is, we were more work friends than friend friends." Lie "And work friends don't tell each other everything. You could have still been playing bass on the weekends for all I know." Another lie. "And, your last girlfriend was a musician, so maybe you guys met at a concert or something." Great, big, huge lie. 

"A girlfriend?" The doubt practically drips from Phil's voice. "What's she play?"

"Uh... a... guitar." Clint swallows. "A really big guitar." Phil quirks one eyebrow and Clint's training to that particular expression must go deep because he folds right away. "A cello."

"What?! I dated a _geek_."

"Hey! She was a very nice person," Clint says. "And, Captain America nerds shouldn't really be throwing stones, you know?"

Phil looks a bit sheepish. "I'm not a _nerd_. I don't even like Cap anymore." His cheeks flush again. "Mostly."

"Sure," Clint says. "So, that was some other Phil Coulson bouncing around while watching that documentary earlier."

"Well, it's differently now, isn't it? He's actually alive, and fighting aliens, and stuff. I just meant all those toys, and cards, and the other merchandise. That stuff's stupid."

Clint leans back and pastes on a grin to try and cover up the pang he just got from Phil so flippantly mentioning his cards. "Stupid, huh? Is that right?"

"Yeah," Phil says warily, like he knows Clint's poking fun at him, but he's not sure how. "That's right."

"So, I guess that means you're not interested in the new line that just came out?"

A complicated mess of an expression rolls over Phil's face as the too-cool-for-school exterior battles with the raging nerd hiding deep in his heart. It's hilarious.

"No," Phil finally says. "No, I would not."

"All right," Clint says easily.

"I mean... I mean, do you have them here? Now?"

"Yeah, they're stacked up in the back of my closet. Well, the Avengers figures are," Clint says. "The toy company offered to send me the whole line, but I didn't really give a shit about the alien figures."

"The Avengers," Phil says with reverence. "That's what you guys call yourselves, isn't it? Wait. Does that mean you have an action figure? You do, don't you?! Oh, my God, that's so..." Phil seems to realize what he's doing, and he manages to reel himself back in. "Nice. That's so nice."

Clint snorts. "Nerd."

"Shut up."

"Such a nerd."

" _Shut up_."

"Super nerd."

"Just play the damn movie."

Crisis averted, Clint can't help but smile as he finally presses the enter button.

_______

 

Aside from a few murmurs about the 'gnarly' picture quality, Phil is quiet throughout the film. Clint hopes that that means the cause of his earlier freakout is forgotten, or at least suppressed. Clint feels for the kid, he really does, but he has enough issues of his own right now.

Besides, he's found that if he thinks too hard about the specifics of teen Phil existing right now, it makes his head hurt.

So, Clint and Phil quietly and happily watch Indiana Jones fight Nazis, and rescue the girl, and save the world. Clint finds himself wrapped up in the easy, uncomplicated story, and when the movie's over, he's at least feeling loads better. When he glances over to check on Phil, though, he's disappointed to find the kid looking just as pensive as before.

"What to take a snack break before we watch the second one?" Clint asks, flicking his fingers at Phil's knee. "Or - geez, what time is it - we could have lunch?"

"Not really that hungry," Phil says.

"Oh. Well, I am." Clint levers himself up off the couch and heads to the kitchen. "If I fix something, will you eat it or just stare at it?"

Phil's silent for a moment, then says, "Depends on what you fix."

Clint smiles as he starts opening doors and gathering things he had just put away a few hours ago. "How's peanut butter and jelly sound?" 

"Like something you'd make for a little kid."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Little kids get Jif and Smuckers, this is organic, no-salt-added, free-range, hand-picked by vestal virgins on the Summer Solstice, peanut butter and jelly."

"Those labels do not say that," Phil says, his voice closer than it was before. 

"It's _inferred_." By the time Clint gets out plates - he's really going to have to step up his dish washing game if Phil's here much longer - and bread, Phil's joined him at the counter.

"You'd fix this for yourself, even if I wasn't here?" Phil asks skeptically.

Clint pauses with a spoon half way in the jam jar. "Yeah, I would."

Phil snorts. "Right."

"It's comfort food, man. Like mac and cheese or chicken soup. It's..." Clint carefully spreads the jam out to all four corners of the bread as he thinks about what he wants to say - what he wants to convey - and how much of himself he's willing to expose in the process. "I... I didn't exactly have a lot, growing up. My family was pretty poor, and then I ended up in the foster system, and then... Well, you don't want to hear my sob story. Anyway, peanut butter and jelly was kind of a constant. It was sweet, and filling, and then, when I got older and had to pay my own way, I could appreciate how cheap it was. You can get a lot of meals out of a jar of peanut butter, if you stretch it right. And so, when I have it as an adult, it kind of helps... I don't know... It makes me feel..." Clint glances at Phil, and he scowls. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Phil asks.

"Like... Like I need to be fixed." Clint hurriedly finishes with the jam, then grabs the peanut butter and a knife. "I don't need to be fixed."

"That's not how I'm looking at you," Phil says. 

Clint narrows his eyes, and tries to ignore the itch on the back of his neck. "Don't patronize me, Coulson."

"I'm not doing that either." Phil sighs. "You don't even know, do you? I mean, you _really_ don't know."

"Know what?" Clint asks defensively.

"That you're... you."

Clint shrugs, because he honestly has no idea what Phil is talking about. But even if Phil is looking at Clint like he's a project, at least he's not freaking out anymore. Clint slaps the pieces of bread together, then cuts his sandwich into squares. He does the same with Phil's and delivers the plate with an eyebrow cocked in challenge.

Phil accepts the plate rather meekly, then shuffles off to take what Clint has begun to think of as 'his' seat at the island.

"So, lunch, then Temple of Doom," Clint says with as much cheer as he can manage. He takes his own seat and starts to dig into his food.

"I wish I could find a way to stop messing up with you," Phil says in a low voice.

Clint nearly chokes on a bit of sandwich.

"I keep saying the wrong thing. Or doing the wrong thing." He glares down at his plate. "I don't mean to. It just happens."

"Phil-"

"I know you think I'm a jerk, but I think you're amazing, and I wish I could make that come through more."

Clint rubs at his right temple. He's pretty sure a spectacularly awful headache is in his future. "First of all, I don't think you're a-"

"I am, though," Phil says as he finally looks up at Clint. "I'm not a nice person."

" _Phil_ , what you've been through in the past two days would be enough to make anyone-"

"I don't just mean now," Phil says. "I mean in general. I don't always treat people as well as I should, even people I care about. Sometimes, especially people I care about." He shrugs. "I don't know why."

"You're a teenager, man," Clint says, finally finding some ground to stand on. "You'll grow out of it."

"You sure about that?" Phil asks with an odd note to his voice.

"Yeah. Definitely. The Phil I know, he might not have done everything you wanted to accomplish, but he's a pretty great guy."

"You mean the guy who let you believe he was dead for a year? That guy?"

Clint's stomach rolls. Maybe the kid has a point about saying things he shouldn't. "Like I said before," Clint says slowly, "he had his reasons."

Phil scowls as he pushes at one of the squares of his sandwich. "I was supposed to go to court this morning."

Clint blinks at the abrupt change of subject, but he gamely goes along with it. "Yeah, you mentioned something about that."

"I did some stupid shit," Phil says, "and I got caught - which was stupidest of all. And, since I'm legally an adult, I'm looking at some actual jail time."

Clint really needs to learn to stop being shocked by what comes out of teen Phil's mouth. "What? Are you-"

"Or," Phil continues, like Clint hadn't spoken at all, "I could take the deal my stepfather worked out with his golfing buddy, the judge, and report straight to basic training."

Clint blinks some more. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"I had wondered."

"Yeah. I was always gonna take the deal, 'cause prison and me just wouldn't... but I figured that I'd stay in for a few years, then get out and go right back to what I was doing before." Phil takes a deep breath. "But now I know that's not going to happen. I'm gonna stay in and end up going to whatever scary, secret agency future me is a part of. That's going to be my life. It's just... Realizing that was a little hard to handle."

Clint shakes his head. "I don't know what you tell you, Phil, to make it better."

"Christ, Clint, that's... I don't expect you to make it better. I know you can't."

"Maybe..." Clint chews on his bottom lip for a moment while he thinks over everything he knows of Coulson from his pre-SHIELD days. It's not much. "You were always cagey about your past; I figured because most of that was probably classified. I know you were a Ranger, though. So, that's pretty badass." Because being a badass is good. Anyone can appreciate being told they're going to be a badass. Right?

"A Ranger." Phil's mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile. "My dad was a Ranger. My real dad."

Clint has the horrible realization that he's somehow managed to step in it again. "Huh. That's-"

"He went away, when I was little. Overseas. And when he came back, he wasn't... He wasn't really himself anymore. He wasn't really..." Phil manages to convey a hell of a lot wrongness in such a small shrug of his shoulders.

Clint does a quick calculation that puts little Phil at the end of the 60s, maybe beginning of the 70s. It doesn't take a great intuitive leap to understand where Phil's dad went, and why, when he came back, he wasn't the same person he was before.

"It's called PTSD now," Clint says softly. "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's what used to be called Shell Shock. It's... A lot of people who have seen combat or been through a trauma have it."

"He wasn't crazy?" Phil asks.

"No. No, man, he was... He was sick."

"You know about that kind of stuff, huh?" Phil says with a kind of care to his voice that has Clint's jaw tensing.

Clint huffs out a soft breath. "I have a passing familiarity with it, yeah."

Phil nods. "He could be... scary, my Dad. Sometimes. Mom couldn't deal, so she took me, and we left. I understand why she did it, but that didn't stop me from punishing her for it, though. Acting out. Being an ass."

Clint thinks for a moment, of everything he could say - everything he should say - but what comes out is, "What'd you do?"

"What? When I was a kid?"

"No. What did you do to get arrested?"

Phil ducks his head. "Stole a car," he says.

Clint snorts out a laugh. "Jesus. Really? Why?"

Phil looks a bit embarrassed at the question. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?"

"Yeah," Clint says with a smirk, "I'm familiar with that line of thinking. At least you grew out of it." He starts to carefully smush the crust of one the remaining squares of his sandwich. "I used to kill people for a living." He keeps his eyes focused on his plate, though he can still sense how Phil tenses. "Well, I guess I still do, but, before I joined our agency, I was freelance."

"You were a bad guy?"

Clint's entire body stills for a moment. Of all the words to hear. Of all the voices to say it. When his heart manages to kick on again, he continues with his sandwich smooshing. 

"Yeah, kid. I was a bad guy."

"What happened?"

"Same thing that happened to you. I was given a choice. And now, here I am, with my own action figure in the closet, and a semi-permanent babysitting gig on Friday nights." Clint finally looks up, and easily catches Phil's wide eyes with his own. 

Those big, blue eyes stare at Clint for what seems like ages, before Phil says, "I'm gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, you're gonna be okay."

"I'm not an awful person?"

"You're a regular person, who has his moments of being not that great."

A slight smile starts at the corner of Phil's mouth. "I should stop bringing down the room?"

"Oh, would you please?"

Phil laughs, and Clint, who's very happy with himself at diffusing yet another Phil-situation, brings his thumb up to his mouth to lick off some stray peanut butter. Phil stops laughing.

"You know," Phil says, his voice rough, "redemption stories are really sexy."

Clint flips him off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Clint has a brief panic attack, there's more talk of PTSD, some emotional manipulation, and a kiss, but Phil's nineteen, so there's still no underage.

With full bellies and quieted emotions, Clint and Phil head back to their marathon. Clint switches out the Raiders Blu-ray for Temple of Doom, and he takes his spot on the couch again. He still makes sure there's space between him and Phil, but he lets himself sprawl a bit. Phil flashes him a smile, and does some sprawling of his own. After they're both comfortable, Clint starts the movie.

And it's good. Great, even. They're just two guys - two regular-ish guys - enjoying a classic action flick. 

About ten minutes into the movie, Clint realizes that he's spending more time looking at Phil than the screen. He remembers what Phil said after the attempted kiss earlier, about Clint watching him. Maybe he was right. But if Clint wasn't aware of it before, he certainly is now. He can't seem to keep his eyes away from Phil - his bright, open face, his sparkling eyes, his quick grins. And it occurs to Clint that, even if he and regular Phil rebuild their friendship, he'll probably never be privy to his side of the man again. There'll always be something - death, resurrection, lies, secrets - between them. 

So Clint alternates between watching the movie, and watching Phil, and generally feeling sorry for himself, until they get to the part of the film where Indy's mind gets taken over, then Clint's not thinking of much of anything.

From seemingly one eye blink to the next, Clint finds that he's gone from the couch to the hallway outside his apartment. He can feel his nostrils flaring with each heavy breath he takes, and his hands clench uselessly at his sides. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have forgotten about that part of the plot?

"Clint?" Phil calls out from behind him. His voice sounds very, very young.

Clint works his mouth for a moment before he can manage to say, "It's okay."

"Clint?" Phil sounds closer. 

"Get back in the apartment."

"But-"

"Back in the apartment _now_." Clint winces at the harshness of his tone. He looks over his shoulder and finds a visibly shaken Phil staring at him. Clint turns around fully and takes a few deep breaths. "It's okay," he says again. "I'm going to be fine, but I need to take a minute, and you need to get back inside."

Phil hesitates, and pain flares in Clint's skull at the thought of having to fight him on this. But, thankfully, Phil retreats back into the apartment without arguing. The door closes behind him, and Clint lets out a long exhale. He backs up a few feet until he hits the wall, then he slowly sinks down to the floor. This one... wasn't bad. It wasn't great, but it could have been worse. He rubs his clammy palms on his knees and lets his head rest against the plaster behind his back.

After a minute, maybe less, there's a soft, metal on metal jingle from down the hall. Clint lifts up his right arm, and Lucky immediately scoots under it and presses himself to Clint's side. Clint buries his face in Lucky's soft fur and holds on tight.

"Here to rescue me again, huh, boy?"

They stay there for a little while, the man and his strangely perceptive dog. Clint would like to linger longer, but the need to take care of Phil eats at him until he's unable to sit still any longer. The poor kid's probably scared out of his mind or making himself sick with worry. Clint gets up and tries to stretch out some of the stiffness in his shoulders and neck. He looks down at Lucky and raises an eyebrow. Lucky woofs softly, then grins his doggy grin and lopes away, probably to find some poor gullible soul to mooch more food off of.

There's a tightness in Clint's chest as he watches him go. He owes a lot to that dog.

Clint looks back to the door to his apartment. He squares his shoulders and goes back inside.

Phil's on his seat at the island, but he springs to his feet when he sees Clint. "Are you okay?" he asks with no small amount of panic in his voice.

"I'm _fine_ ," Clint says. "And I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Phil repeats. " _You're_ sorry? For-"

"I freaked you out." Clint rubs the back of his neck. "And I ruined the movie. So... yeah, sorry."

Phil slumps back onto his seat. "That's not... You're not..." He despondently shakes his head. "There is nothing I could say right now that would make this okay for you, is there?"

"Phil-"

"Is there?"

Clint thinks for a moment. He _really_ thinks. "No," he says. "I'd like to just... Can we maybe just forget this happened? Can we just ignore it and go back to watching the movie?"

"You want to finish the movie?" Phil says dubiously.

"Sure. Don't you?"

"Not especially, no."

"Oh. Okay." Clint shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Then he takes them out again. He scrubs one through his hair. "We could start the third one," he offers hopefully. 

"Does this happen a lot?" Phil asks.

"What, watching movies with my de-aged former handler?" Clint's tentative smile wilts quickly under the force of the glare he gets. Phil's face might be different, but his expression is pure Agent Coulson.

"You know what I'm asking you," Phil says. "Don't deflect."

Clint ducks his head. "Geez, are you sure you don't have any memories from adult you, 'cause you're channeling him pretty well there." Phil's jaw tightens so much, Clint's afraid he might crack a tooth. "No," he says with a sigh. "Not so much. Not anymore."

"But it used to, is what you're saying, right?" Phil grits out. "And he, _he_ could have helped you, couldn't he?"

"He who," Clint says. "My therapists, or-"

"Old me," Phil says. "Old me could have helped you."

Clint can't help but wince. "I'd really rather not go there."

"I hate him." 

Clint's startled by the vehemence in Phil's voice. "Phil-"

"I do. I hate him. What kind of person does what he did? Huh? And to someone like you? What kind of person?!"

"He had his-"

"Stop saying he had his reasons!" Phil says, his agitation growing with each word until he's almost trembling. "He should have been there to help you get through this. He shouldn't have just left you to fend for yourself. He shouldn't have left."

And Clint gets it. He's a little slow on the uptake with some things, but he's not stupid, and he knows why Phil's really upset.

Clint slowly approaches the island. "I'm not saying that knowing Phil was still alive wouldn't have been good for me. Beyond the obvious of knowing my friend was still around, I maybe would have... I carried a lot of guilt over what happened to him. People kept telling me that what happened wasn't my fault, that I couldn't have stopped it, but..." Clint shakes his head and puts on a wan smile. "I don't always hear that great. But, Phil, I'm not alone. I have support. I have therapists I can talk to. I have friends who, well, they can't be around a lot because of what they do, but I know if I call, they'll answer." Clint pauses. "If they're not getting shot at. The point is, when I say I'm doing okay, I'm doing okay. It's not a lie."

" _That_ just now, that was okay?" Phil says.

"That was better than it has been in the past. _I'm_ better. And I'm gonna keep getting better." Clint pauses again, then goes for broke. "Things have changed a lot since the 70's."

Phil's shoulders go up and he kind of hunches in on himself. "That's not why I'm upset."

"Okay."

"It's not."

"Okay.

Phil crosses his arms over his chest and scowls. "Future me is still an asshole."

"I think you said that before."

"Well, it bears repeating."

"Okay." Clint smiles as Phil lets out an irritated little huff. "So, you want to finish the movie now?"

"The answer's still no."

"Are you sure? I can make it go back to where we-"

"Clint." Phil gives him a hard stare. "I really don't want to finish watching that movie."

Clint nods. "All right then; you're the boss."

Phil purses his lips. "But, I guess, we could watch the next one. I mean, as long as there isn't anything in it that might... um..."

"Make me have another meltdown?" 

"I wouldn't put it like that," Phil says disapprovingly.

Clint mentally goes over what he can remember of The Last Crusade. "No, I'm pretty sure I'll be okay for this one."

"Good." Phil says. He clears his throat. "Listen, if you want, or, you know, _need_ to talk, or something..."

"I appreciate the offer," Clint says. "But, what happened... It's a little above your current pay grade."

Phil blinks a few times. "I actually meant that if you need to call somebody, I can hide out in the bathroom until you're done. I won't try and listen in or anything."

"Oh." Clint's smile comes easily this time. "That's really nice, Phil. I mean it. But I'm okay."

Phil accepts that. Or, at least, he seems to, which is good enough for Clint. They move back to the couch, and Clint switches out the Blu-ray again. He briefly considers just pitching Temple of Doom out the window, but decides to hide it under his Die Hard collection. It's not that he thinks Nat would begrudge him getting rid of it, especially after he told her why, it's that he's kind of loathe to throw away anything that was a gift. Plus, an incomplete collection would eventually bother the heck out of him.

And maybe one day he'll be able to sit through the whole thing again.

One day.

They start The Last Crusade, but Clint can't quite lose himself in it. His nerves are still a little too frayed to deal with any action, even the kind on screen. Instead, he goes back to watching Phil again. Over the course of the film, the tension around Phil's mouth and eyes fade, and his shoulders loosen. Clint drinks in his presence while he still can.

Time passes quickly, and all too soon the credits are rolling as Phil reverently says, "That was awesome!"

"Told you," Clint says with a grin. 

"Yeah, you did." Phil peers at him coyly. "So, the fourth movie-"

"No," Clint says quickly.

"Oh, come on."

"Nuh uh." Clint resolutely shakes his head. "Not happening."

"It can't be that bad."

"You are an innocent, and have no idea how bad a movie series can get. Trust me."

Phil snorts. "I'm not that innocent." He lowers his head and looks up through his lashes. 

Clint swallows hard and pulls his limbs in a bit. "Yeah, I'll bet."

Phil blinks a few times and grimaces. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean... It's just, you're really hot, and I honestly keep forgetting all the reasons I why shouldn't be trying to get in your pants."

Clint puts his hands up to his face. "Oh, Phil."

"Sorry," Phil says again, and he sounds like he actually means it. Then, a moment later, he follows up with, "So, remind me why we can't-"

"Because I said so," Clint says as he lowers his hands an aims a weak glare at Phil. "You've been de-aged, and I'm way too old for you, and regular you didn't even want me knowing he was still alive in the first place, and-"

"Yeah, I got it." Phil gets his pensive look back. He frowns down at where his thumb is running along one of the seams in his borrowed sweatpants. "If things were different, though..." His looks back up and pins Clint to his seat with those big baby blues. "If, you know, I was just some guy-"

"Some 19-year-old guy?" Clint interjects.

Phil rolls his eyes. "Some _younger_ guy that you met, I don't know, just on the street or something, would you..."

"Take you back to my place for an Indiana Jones marathon?" Clint says.

Phil smirks. "Sure, we'll go with that."

Clint sighs. "If you were ten years older, or I was ten years younger, and there wasn't all this history and weirdness between us, and we just met on the street or some place... then, yeah, I'd definitely try and get your number. Maybe invite you out for coffee or something."

"I'd say yes," Phil says. "Just so you know."

Clint rests his head against the back of the couch and lets himself imagine, just for a minute or so, a world where his Phil might have said the same thing.

Phil makes a soft noise that sounds like it comes from the back of his throat. "Have I mentioned lately how much I think old me is an asshole?"

Clint smirks. "I think it's been a couple hours."

"So I'm due, then?"

Clint rolls his head until he's looking at Phil. Phil's looking back. And there's this sudden change in the air, this heady yet dangerous-feeling pressure that's descended. Clint's having a hard time looking away from Phil's mouth. His face isn't lined, his nose is straight, but that mouth...

"You know how I said I'm not a good person," Phil says unexpectedly.

Clint feels like a heel. Here he is perving on the hints of what's going to turn into his Phil, and the poor kid's about to go through another crisis. "I thought we went over that," Clint says, 

"Yeah, I know, but..." Phil licks his lips and scoots a little closer to Clint. "You know how I said that?"

"Yeah, I remember."

Phil nods. "I just... I really want you to kiss me."

Clint tenses, then he starts to get up. " _Phil_ -"

"No." Phil reaches out and puts a hand on Clint's forearm. "Wait, please. I know you just told me your reasons for not wanting to do anything with me, and they're good reasons, valid reasons, but..." Phil looks down at his hand on Clint's skin. "I have valid reasons too."

Clint knows he should break away from Phil's hold. He should definitely get off the couch. He should maybe even go outside for a few minutes, or maybe to the bathroom for a long, cold shower. But Clint's never exatly been the king of great decisions. So, instead, he says, "What reasons? Besides the fact that you're young and probably perpetually horny?"

Phil purses his lips, and his thumb starts to stroke along the ridge of one of Clint's veins. "I don't know how much time I have. Here, I mean. You're sure that the science geeks are gonna find a way to turn me back into old me, and that's great... for all of you. But what's gonna happen to me?"

The honest distress on Phil's face has Clint wanting to reach out. He doesn't, though he does let Phil keep his grip on his arm.

"It could be," Phil continues, "that I go back to my time, and join the Army, and I don't see you for decades. And then when I do see you, I treat you trash-"

"Hey, you never-"

"Or it could be that I don't go back at all. That the me that's me right now never really existed in the first place, and I just disappear."

"You're not just going to disappear, Phil. That won't happen."

"Or, I might just become some random bit of memory that old me has. Something he'll just forget about." Phil shrugs and he offers up a tremulous smile. "Either way, my future looks pretty damn bleak."

Clint does move his arm from Phil's grip now, but it's only so he can grab onto Phil's hand and hold it tight. "I won't forget you," Clint says sternly.

Phil's smile gets a bit steadier. The tiniest of crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes, precursors to the well worn and well loved lines he'll develop over the decades. "I know."

"I won't," Clint says again. "And I'm willing to bet that May and everybody else on that plane of yours won't forget you either."

Phil ducks his head a bit. "Yeah."

"So," Clint says, "those are your reasons?"

Phil looks up at him through his lashes. "There's one more."

"Okay. Lay it on me."

Phil takes a deep breath, raises his chin, and looks Clint right in the eye. "I've never been kissed by someone who loves me before."

Clint recoils. He drops Phil's hand. "That's dirty fucking pool, Coulson," he says as he gets up and strides away from the couch. 

"I told you I was a bad person," Phil calls out from behind him.

"You're not bad," Clint says, spinning back around, "you're just manipulative as shit."

"I'm sorry," Phil says. And, honestly, he does look kind of ashamed of himself.

Clint shoves both hands through his hair and paces the length of the living area a few times. When he's done pacing, Phil has gotten up and is standing by the couch. He's got his arms crossed, and he's hugging himself, and looking miserable.

"Is it really that important to you?" Clint asks. "So important that you're willing to take the feelings I have towards adult you, feelings I know will _never_ be reciprocated by the guy I _actually_ have them for, and _use_ those feelings to get your way?"

Phil seems to shrink in on himself. "Yeah," he says, "I am."

Clint paces a few more times. "This is fucked up."

"I know."

Clint stops moving. He stands still as a statue as the knowledge of what he's about to do hollows out part of his insides. "Then again, so am I. I guess."

Phil looks up. "Clint?"

"One kiss," Clint says. "And you don't ask for more. This isn't going to segue into me fucking or, or you fucking me, or the two of us ending up in bed together in any way whatsoever. One kiss."

Hope has bloomed all over Phil's face. It's making Clint a little nauseous.

"One kiss," Phil says. He starts a bit when Clint moves towards him. "Wait, now? Right now? I should brush my teeth."

Clint sighs. "Phil, if you give me any time to think about what we're about to do, I am going to come to my senses and-"

"No! Now's good. Now's fine." Phil waits until Clint is right in front of him before reaching up to rest one of his hands on Clint's shoulder, close to his neck. "Is this... is this okay?" he asks hesitantly.

Clint swallows hard at the gentle brush of Phil's thumb against his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, just..." He trails off as Phil steps close, pressing their bodies together. "Don't get grabby," he says as Phil's other hand settles at the small of his back.

Phil huffs out a soft laugh. It ghosts across Clint's face. "I won't say the same."

Clint rolls his eyes, but he lightly places his hands on Phil's waist.

Here like this, so close together, their height is evenly matched, but Phil's too narrow for Clint's taste. He doesn't quite fit right.

Phil leans in. "Can I just.." He tilts his head slightly. His eyes focus on Clint's mouth.

Clint's own eyes slide shut. He feels the hand that's on his shoulder move to his jaw and gently nudge his face up and to the right. Clint's heart pounds. He wonders if Phil's fingertips can feel his pulse. 

Then Phil's lips press against his own. For a moment, that small point of contact is the most chaste thing Clint's ever done with someone. Then he hears Phil make a soft noise, the angle of the kiss changes, and...

It's not his Phil. It's not _his_ Phil. 

It's not.

But... it's a Phil. It's a Phil Coulson who's maybe not that far removed from Clint's Phil Coulson. Because something inside of Clint is practically singing at Phil's touch. His taste. And maybe the body isn't quite right, but maybe the soul is. 

And Clint gives himself permission to stop thinking. He lets Phil lead, but he's not a passive participant. He gives as good as he gets. Phil's arms wind around Clint and hold him close while Clint moves his hands to tangle in thick, soft hair. He tugs on the strands a little, just because he can - and because he thinks regular Phil would not have allowed any hair touching at all - and Phil all but melts against him. Clint takes his weight easily.

Having to breathe gets the better of them both. But neither of them break the hold they have on each other. Phil rubs his cheek against Clint's as Clint bends his head a bit to press his lips against Phil's oh so familiar jawline. 

He rests there for a moment and murmurs into Phil's skin, "The things I could do to you..."

Phil shudders in his arms, his own grip tightening on Clint's shoulders. "Please," he says brokenly. "Please, I want you so bad."

Clint closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Phil's collarbone.

"You know I'm legal," Phil says, his voice fast and desperate. "You know I want you, and you want me. Why can't we? Just this once."

"Phil, I told you-"

"I know what you told me! And I know older me is a shit. But we could have this, Clint. The two of us. We could have this."

Clint lets out a soft, wrecked laugh. He pulls back enough to look Phil in the eyes, and he hates the look of hope he sees. "Phil... I said no."

"Please, Clint."

Clint lets one of his thumbs trace along Phil's cheekbone, then down the bridge of his perfectly straight nose. "It's not about your age. Not really. And it's not about what either of us want." Clint cups the side of Phil's face and keeps his gaze steady. "You don't belong here. This isn't your time. And the Phil that does exist in this time doesn't want me. And even if you're okay with this, he's not. He wouldn't be. And I can't do that to him." Clint watches as Phil's jaw tenses and the corners of his mouth - that gorgeous, soft mouth - turn down, hinting at the lines that would eventually develop there. "I know you may not understand, but-"

"No, no," Phil says. "I get it." He closes his eyes and swallows. Then he huffs out a breath. "It's just... Why do I always have to fall for the noble ones?"

"Aww, jeez. I'm not noble, kid."

Phil opens his eyes again. He stares at Clint, then he says, "Future me is a goddamn moron."

"I've learned better than to argue with you about that."

Phil's lips twist up into something that's not quite a smile. It's almost painful how closely that expression looks like something regular Phil would wear.

"Can I kiss you again?" Phil asks.

Clint sighs. "What did I-"

"I know," Phils says. "I know. Just one more time. I won't ask again. I promise." Phil moves one of his hands from Clint's back and makes a cross over his heart.

Clint's weak, and Phil's still so close. "Okay," he says. "Once more." 

This time, they fit together easily from the start. Clint knows he won't have this again, so he lets himself appreciate it. He lets himself get lost in it. Which is why he has no idea Phil had let his hands wander until one of them firmly grabs a significant amount of Clint's right butt cheek. 

Clint breaks away from the kiss with a snort of laughter. 

Phil's looking apologetic, but also rather pleased with himself. "I had to," he says. "And I'm not as sorry as I should be."

Clint rolls his eyes, but he can't hide the fondness in his voice when he says, "Get off me, you little shit." 

Phil gives Clint's ass another squeeze, then releases him completely. Clint absolutely does not think about how good it would feel to pull Phil back in. He just doesn't.

"Thanks," Phil says. "I know that nothing's really changed, but... thank you."

"Yeah, well... Thanks to you too. I guess." Clint scratches at the back of his head and feels uncomfortable.

,Phil nods. "Okay. I'm gonna go and jerk off now." He turns around and heads towards the bathroom.

Clint's jaw drops, but he manages to say, "I guess I'll start dinner," just before the door closes with a quiet click. Clint takes a moment, just one moment, to think about joining Phil. Then he walks to the nearest wall and bangs his head against it a few times. 

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

With whatever passes for his common sense and decency knocked back into place, Clint goes to the kitchen and starts taking things out of the refrigerator. Phil emerges just as Clint slides a pan of chicken breasts into the oven. Clint thinks he's never seen the guy - either version - look so relaxed. It's a little annoying.

"I can watch stuff out here," Phil says as Clint dries off his hands on a dish towel, "if you want to..."

Clint raises an eyebrow. Phil inclines his head towards the bathroom.

"Ah. No, I'm good. Thanks, though." Clint folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the counter. "So, um, the chicken's gonna take about half an hour; do you want to-"

"Could you tell me more of your stories?" Phil asks. He slides onto his stool and rests his elbows on the top of the island.

"About Cap?"

"No, about you."

"Aw, Phil," Clint says as he ducks his head, "I'm not-"

"You're a former bad guy who's now a superhero, and your weapon of choice is a bow and arrow. I don't know what you were about to say about yourself, but I'm willing to bet it was wrong."

Phil's gaze is steady, and eerily similar to a look Coulson used to give him. Clint doesn't stand a chance, and he knows it.

"Okay, fine," Clint says, hoping he won't seriously regret this, "what do you want to know?"

To his gratitude, Phil stays away from any heavy topics. He seems delighted by the tales Clint weaves first about some of his better memories of the circus, and then about his and Coulson's first few missions together. Clint doesn't lie, but he does embellish a bit, and he certainly leaves out all the bad and bloody bits. 

Clint keeps talking while they eat, only pausing when he hears scratching at his door and he gets up to let Lucky in. The moocher settles in between him and Phil so he can get passed equal amounts of chicken. Later, when they're cleaning up, and Phil is beside him at the sink, drying everything he's handed, Clint starts asking for stories of his own. He asks Phil about his band. He asks for the full story behind the stolen car. He not-so-silently revels in the fact that even Phil Coulson was a dumbass kid when he was younger. Then he laughs long and hard as he's repeatedly slapped by a damp dish towel. 

It's one of the best evening's Clint's had in a long, long time. That's why the harsh knock at his door really shouldn't have come as much of a surprise.

Clint never gets to keep nice things for long.

They both tense, and Clint's about to go for his weapon, when May's voice comes through, loud and clear.

"Barton, it's me. Open up."

Clint looks over at Phil, and that's a mistake, because Phil looks scared in a way that he never, ever should. For a moment, Clint has a wild idea about taking Phil and slipping out the window. He could call Nat. He could call Stark. He could give Phil options that he would never get with May and SHIELD. But that would be wrong on a level that Clint hasn't participated in for a long time. Because Phil is... Phil isn't real. And Coulson needs to come back.

Clint puts a hand on Phil's shoulder and gives it a squeeze before he goes to answer the door.

May's looking annoyed and impatient. 

"That was fast," Clint says. 

"Fitz and Simmons were motivated," she says to Clint. She looks at Phil. "Grab your duffle. Let's go."

Phil's jaw sets and stubbornness comes over him like a wave. "It's only been a day. You said it would take longer. How do they know that whatever they've done will fix me and not just make me explode, or turn me into a baby, or something?"

Melinda glares at him for a moment, then her face softens slightly. "Because they're the best at what they do, Coulson. And they wouldn't risk you like that."

"You mean they wouldn't risk _him_ like that," Phil says.

Melinda cuts her eyes to Clint. Clint ignores her and hurries over to the couch to get Phil's duffle. "So," he says as he shoves the bag at Phil, "this was... something, wasn't it?" He tries to smile, then has to ignore how wrong it feels.

Phil blinks at him, then says to Melinda, "Can you give us a minute?"

"Coulson-"

"Just, could you step out into the hall and give us a minute?"

Melinda looks like she's about to argue. Her eyes flit back and forth between Clint and Phil, then narrow dangerously. Clint tries to not gulp because he's suddenly sure that she knows. She may not know what she knows, but she _knows_. 

Melinda's nostrils flare, then she looks at Clint, looks down at her watch, then looks at Clint again. "One minute."

"Five," Phil says.

"Three," Melinda says with a clenched jaw.

"Three," Clint says quickly.

With one last very pointed look at Clint, Melinda leaves the apartment. Clint exhales loudly.

"Great," he says, "now she's going to come back and kill me. That's just what this week needs."

"No, she's not," Phil says.

"You don't know that. You don't know-" Clint immediately stops talking as Phil presses their mouths together into one last kiss.

"Sorry," Phil says against Clint's lips.

"Don't be."

"I just had to... One last time."

"I know."

Phil pulls back, and his big, blue eyes roam over Clint's face. "I want to remember you," he says. 

"Maybe you will," Clint manages to say around the boulder that's suddenly become lodged in his throat. 

"But I'll be _him_ , and it won't matter."

" _Phil_."

"You know, I'm kind of glad nothing ever happened between you and future me, 'cause he's a jackass, and you deserve better." Phil darts in and presses one last kiss to the corner of Clint's mouth.

By the time Clint can even begin to think of a response, Phil's gone.


	5. Chapter 5

For a day or so after May collects Phil, Clint putters around and tries to keep himself busy. It's partially so he won't check his phone every five minutes, but mostly so he can try and keep his mind off the sudden hole in his life. It's silly. Phil was only with him for a day, but his absence is an ache that's deep and gnawing. So, Clint plays with Simone's kids, and he takes Lucky to the park, and he gets around to doing a bunch of little odd jobs that he had kept putting off.

He doesn't call his therapist, though he does spend a few hours on the phone with Nat listening to her lament the complete non existence of Steve's love life. Clint suggests that she just start throwing names of random SHIELD personnel at him and see if anyone sticks. He wants to tell her about Phil, but he never quite manages it.

SHIELD doesn't call him, and he doesn't call SHIELD.

After the third day of silence from Phil or anyone associated with his new team, Clint realizes that there's not going to be any further contact. He's a little peeved that May - who now knew that Clint had been left in the dark - couldn't at least shoot him a text, just a little yay or nay to let him know how things went. But considering how Clint had kind of defiled one of her oldest friends, maybe not hearing from May again was a good thing.

Besides, if Phil was back to normal, he might have ordered May to not contact Clint. Hell, Coulson was probably upset that she spilled the beans and went to Clint in the first place.

Well, that was fine. Just fine. Fuck him. Clint didn't need Phil Coulson in his life.

Of course, by the fourth straight day of Clint using that as his new personal mantra, Coulson shows up.

"Futz," Clint mutters, as he stares out the spyhole in his door. He can't exactly pick up on a lot of details, but Clint can clearly see that Coulson's back to his true age - and he will definitely not be examining the pang of loss that goes through him at the thought of never seeing teenaged Phil again, no thank you. Clint can also see that Coulson is dressed in one of his usual suits, but he's not wearing a tie and the top few buttons of his bright blue shirt are undone. His relaxed and casual look is making Clint uncomfortable.

Clint's trying to figure out how he wants to play this - should he duck out the fire escape or hide in the bathroom - when Coulson says, quite clearly even through the door, "I can hear you breathing."

" _Futzing futz_." Clint rears back, curses at himself some more, then, knowing that prolonging this would just make it worse, opens the door. He doesn't open it all the way, though, and he makes sure to brace his shoulder and foot against it. "Hey," he says, aiming for nonchalance and hitting somewhere around disgruntled.

If Coulson's picked up on Clint's hostility, he doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he smiles widely. It's an odd look for him. "Hey. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner, but the people responsible for the anti-"

"Stop," Clint says firmly. "Don't need to know. Probably not cleared for it anyway."

Coulson blinks. "Oh. All right." His eyes skim over Clint, and he smiles again. This one's more subdued and familiar, though no less warm. He takes a step forward, putting him dangerously close to Clint's space. "Can I come in?"

Clint had wondered, in those first few days, what he'd do when, _if_ , adult Phil ever turned up at his door and asked to speak with him. The answer changed wildly from hour to hour, but sometime in the past day or so it had settled quite firmly.

"No," Clint says. There's no hesitation, no wavering, and Clint doesn't think he's ever been prouder of himself.

Coulson clearly did not expect that. "What-"

"No," Clint says again. "I don't know your reasons for not getting in touch with me this past year, and I don't need to know them. But I do know that if May hadn't let your teenage self out of the bag, I'd still be in the dark, and I'm willing to bet that I would have remained there for a hell of a long time." Clint sees that hit home. It's a strange sensation, feeling vindicated and gutted at the same time. "Don't pretend you're here to do anything other than damage control, and, honestly, I'm a little insulted. I haven't told anyone you're still alive, not even Nat, and I don't intend to. Whatever you may think of me and my ability to still be an agent, I'm not going to compromise you and your new team. Unless, of course, I get mindfucked by another alien." Clint knocks his knuckles against the doorframe. "Here's hoping that won't happen again anytime soon."

"Don't joke about that," Coulson says. "Please. And I'm not here for damage control, I swear. I just... I want to explain. What happened to me. Why I didn't contact you. Can I please come in?"

Clint can feel his resolve start to crumble. Coulson's looking all kind of sincere and contrite, and his shirt's doing amazing things to his eyes, and Clint _does_ want answers, and he _is_ only human... Then an image of Phil pops into Clint's head. Phil, with his righteous fury and indignation on Clint's behalf. Phil, who would probably have sneered and slammed the door in Coulson's face, if such a thing could have been possible. He thinks about what Phil would say to Clint falling for Coulson's manipulations.

"No," Clint says for a third time.

A look of pure frustration comes over Coulson's face. "I just want to talk."

"I don't care."

"Clint, you're being unreasonable." Coulson winces and, to his credit, looks like he would like nothing more than to shove those words back into his mouth.

But it's too late. The damage is done, and Clint has gone from trying to be stoically resolved to really fucking pissed. "I'm being un-"

"Wait, wait," Coulson says quickly, "I didn't mean it like-"

"I'm pretty sure I know exactly how you meant it, Coulson," Clint grates out. "I'm not half as stupid as you people think I am."

"No, Clint, please-"

"Just leave me alone, fuck off back to your new life, and we can both pretend that the whole being clued into your continued existence thing never happened, okay?"

Clint slams the door in a still sputtering Coulson's face. He backs up a few paces. His hands are shaking, and there's what feels like an electric current running under his skin. Clint doesn't know if he wants to run around the block a few times or head to the bathroom and puke up his breakfast. Just when he's thinking that the bathroom might be the best bet, the door opens and Phil comes charging in.

"Wha-"

"Not okay," Coulson says as he comes to a stop directly in front of Clint. "Definitely not okay."

"You can't just come-"

"If you had really wanted to keep me out, you would have put on your deadbolt."

Clint gapes for a moment, then says, "What the hell kind of stalker logic is that?!"

"Admittedly, this is not my finest moment," Coulson says. "But, I _need_ you to hear me out."

"I need you to get out of my apartment!"

"No." Coulson shakes his head and widens the stance of his feet, like he's ready for Clint to try and physically move him.

Clint thinks about it, but he's out of practice, and Coulson's wily. Clint doesn't trust him to not play dirty.

Clint takes a few steps backwards to put more distance between them - and he pretends to not notice how Coulson looks almost pained at that. "Have you gone around the fucking bend?"

"Maybe," Coulson says. "A little. I've had kind of a traumatic year."

Clint's nostrils flare and he clenches his fists. "Oh. You've had a traumatic year? That so?"

Coulson keeps his eyes on Clint as he reaches up and slides a few buttons out of their holes, then pulls his shirt to one side giving Clint a glimpse of thick scar tissue.

Clint might be making that run to the bathroom after all. "Jesus," he says. "You-"

"First, I want you to know that not everything was a lie," Coulson says as he lets his shirt fall back into place. "No matter what came after, the initial injury did happen. Nothing about that was made up."

Clint swallows a few times, trying to keep the rising nausea at bay. He doesn't puke, thank god, but he can clearly feel the telltale signs of his body starting to betray him. He staggers over to the island on weak knees and drops down onto his stool. He rests his head in his hands and tries to calm his suddenly racing heart.

"Clint?"

"I'm sorry," Clint says. "I'm so sorry."

Coulson curses quietly and viciously. Clint somehow manages to feel even worse, which is quite a feat. He can feel Coulson move closer to him, and Clint flinches.

"I just can't seem to stop messing up with you, can I?" Coulson says in a surprisingly despondent voice.

A rough bark of laughter comes out of Clint's throat because, hey, he remembers those words. And the tone sounds kind of the same too. Maybe this is just the effect he has on Phil Coulsons. Clint lifts his head to take a look, and he sees Coulson practically wringing his hands.

"I'm not going to ask if you're okay," Coulson says, "but is there anything I can do for you? Do you want some water, or-"

"I don't suppose you happened to see a one-eyed, yellowish mutt hanging around on your trek to my floor, did you?" Clint asks.

"You want me to find Lucky?" Coulson says. "I can do that."

"Yeah, Lucky. Wait, how do you know his-" Clint gets lightheaded for a few seconds as his heart stalls then kicks back into a normal rhythm. Evidently one way to knock him out of a panic attack is to introduce more panic. Who knew? "Oh," Clint says faintly.

Coulson tries to smile. "Yeah."

"Huh. How much do you-"

"All of it."

"All of it," Clint says. "You remember... Okay. Well, I guess I should take you not immediately punching me as a good sign, right?"

"Why on Earth would I punch you?" Coulson asks as he moves a little closer. Clint recognizes the non-threatening, almost hesitant look on his face as something Coulson would regularly pull out when they had to deal with traumatized civilians.

Clint's not sure if he wants to feel annoyed or appreciative.

"You're gonna make me say it, Coulson? Really?" Clint rubs a hand over his face. "Fine. Because of what I did to you."

"Ah." Coulson nods and takes another step forward. He's almost within touching distance, and it's taking everything Clint has to keep from bolting. "I still am a little pissed that I couldn't convince you to get past first base, but..." One corner of Coulson's mouth lifts up into a soft smirk. "But, like I said, I always fell for the noble ones."

Clint is pretty sure something in his brain just broke because there's no way Phil Coulson just... "That's not funny," Clint says.

"I know. It's sad, and it's tragic, and I was so, _so_ stupid."

Coulson shifts like he's getting ready to move forward again, and Clint nearly knocks his stool over in his haste to keep distance between them.

"Clint-"

"Don't!" Clint says forcefully. He backs up until his butt hits one of the kitchen counters. "You just... You just stay right there."

Coulson nods and takes one step back and two steps over. He's given Clint a clear path to the door. "Do you still want me to find Lucky?"

Clint breathes out harshly through his nose. "I want you to say whatever the hell it is you came here to say then get the fuck out."

"All right," Coulson says. "Fair warning, it's a lot, so you might want to sit back down."

Clint crosses his arms over his chest and remains standing.

The corners of Coulson's mouth lift just a bit. "Okay. Like I said, I want you to know that not everything that happened to me was a lie. I really did get stabbed by Loki, which was _not_ your fault, by the way.”

Clint's eyes drop to the floor.

"I mean it, Clint."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Hey!" Coulson's sharp voice has Clint focusing on him automatically. His eyes look older than they should. "I need you to say you believe that, Clint. Even if you don't believe anything else I tell you, I need you to say you believe that."

Clint has to work to get the words out. "I believe you."

Coulson just studies him for a moment. Clint lifts his chin up and stubbornly stares back. Coulson nods.

"Good," he says. "So, I got stabbed. And then I died. I really died. That part wasn't a trick either. When they brought me back, that was when the lies started, and not just for the Avengers. They started lying to me too." Coulson clenches his jaw, but it's not enough to stop the rest of his face from crumpling just a bit.

Clint tenses up again. The thought of Phil Coulson breaking down in his kitchen is almost too much to handle. His hands almost start to itch with the need to soothe and comfort. He stays put, though, because even if this isn't a trick, Coulson isn't Phil, and Clint's not particularly keen to show more of his underbelly to this man at the moment. Instead, he clears his throat, and asks rather roughly, "What did they do, Phil?"

Coulson stares at him for a long moment, his eyes wide and unblinking, before he says, "They used alien goo to resurrect my corpse, then they messed with my brain so I wouldn't have any memory of the procedure."

That... is not what Clint was expecting. His brain cycles through about a dozen responses ranging from sarcasm to screaming in horror. In the end, though, he settles for just saying, "Huh."

"Yeah." Coulson rubs a hand over his eyes. "Hey, do you still have any of those beers in your fridge?"

"No. But I've got some whiskey above the-"

"That'll work. I'm just gonna..." Coulson motions towards the island, then he takes the seat that Phil used to prefer. "Sorry. I know you don't want me too close, but that's the first time I kind of laid everything out like that in one sentence, and I kind of need to... sit for a few minutes." He slumps down. "Yeah."

Clint quickly retrieves the bottle of Jameson from the cabinet over the sink, then gets out the two mugs that haven't been used since that morning he and Phil shared coffee. He doesn't see any dust or bug parts this time, but he rinses them out anyway.

"So," Clint says as he pours healthy swigs of amber liquid into each mug. "Aliens?" He pushes one of the mugs over to Coulson, who takes it with a thankful nod.

"Alien," Coulson says after he takes a sip. He grimaces a bit, but Clint's not sure if it's from the quality of the liquor or the subject matter. "Singular. There was just one. That I saw, anyway. It was blue. And big. Really big. I'd say at least eight feet."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Clint hooks his stool with his foot and pulls it towards him. He ignores the pained look on Coulson's face as he settles himself on the other side of the island. It's still closer than Clint would like to be to the man, but this isn't the kind of conversation that he wants to have from across a room. He picks up his own mug and stares into it for a moment. He doesn't take a drink.

"Is that why you didn't contact me?" Clint asks. "You thought I'd be freaked out if you started glowing in the dark, or levitating, or something?"

The guilty expression that comes over Coulson's face is enough of an answer. "I wish I could say yes, because that would be a pretty good excuse, wouldn't it? I mean, finding out you were injected with alien goo and had your brain messed with, that would be right at the top of a list of viable excuses."

"It would."

Coulson lifts the mug to his mouth again. After another, obviously fortifying gulp, he says, "I only found out about that stuff recently. Before that I thought... I had been _programmed_ to think I had spent my recuperation in Tahiti."

Clint feels his eyebrows go up. "Tahiti? Doing what, lying on beaches and sucking down tropical drinks?"

"Something like that."

"I guess that's better than the alternative."

A dark look comes over Coulson's face. "Not really. I know I have no business complaining about being lied to, especially not to you, but-"

"You said your brain was messed with, and you were programmed," Clint says. "What do you mean, like..." His fingers tighten on the handle of his mug. "You mean like Nat or-"

"No. It was..." Coulson looks down at his mug, then motions towards the bottle. Clint pushes it over. Coulson gives himself a generous second helping. "They cut the top of my skull off and a machine directly manipulated my brain," he says before sucking down about half of what he had just poured out.

Clint stares at him. "What?"

"The cut me open," Coulson says as he uses his right index finger to draw an invisible line across his forehead. "They tried to take away my memories of what had happened. Of what they did to me. I was dead for days, Clint. Not seconds, or minutes. _Days_. And it hurt, what they did. It hurt so bad. And I understand, I guess, in a way. They didn't want me to have to live with that pain. They didn't think I'd be able to live with it. But they took away my choice in the matter, and that's very hard to forgive."

Clint breathes out slowly as he lets his mind adjust to these new horrors. A small, selfish part of him can't help but feel relieved that all the post-Loki digging around in his skull was done the old fashioned way. "Who the hell are we working for, Phil?" he asks, Coulson's given name slipping out again.

A grim smile comes over Coulson's face. "The devil we know?"

"I didn't sign up for human experimentation," Clint says sharply, "and I don't think you did either."

"I disagree with their methods," Coulson says, "but I can't argue with the results." He rubs at his scar through the material of his shirt. "I would have prefered if they were honest with me from the start, but I can't exactly throw stones about that kind of thing, can I?"

Clint huffs and looks back down at his mug. "It's not the same."

"No, it's not," Coulson says. "What I did was worse."

"Right. Okay. How exactly do you figure that?"

Coulson gives him an odd look. “Because… because we were friends.”

“We weren’t friends, Coulson.”

“Clint-”

“We weren’t.”

“Stop. We _were_. I know you’re upset now, but what I did, hurting you, doesn’t change what came before it. We were friends.”

Clint still doesn't’ agree, but he also doesn't have enough in him to press the issue. Especially when there are more important things that need to be clarified. “Fine. We were friends. Then tell me, Coulson, if we were so damn friendly, why’d you let me think you were dead? I mean, if we were such good friends and all?”  
Coulson shifts on his stool, clearly uncomfortable thanks to Clint’s words, or tone, or probably both. "You know, a lot of times I don't think twice about putting myself in danger. Especially if it's for the greater good. If there are innocent lives at stake."

Clint looks pointedly at the part of Coulson's shirt that's covering his scar. "You don't say?"

Coulson gives him a wry smile. "But when it comes to some things, important things, I'm such a coward, Clint. Fury wanted to keep my survival from the Avengers, but I could have disobeyed him. I could have broken protocol and found you. But I was too scared."

Clint doesn't try to hide the surprise he feels. "Scared? You? Of what, Fury?"

"No,” Coulson says, “of you. Of what you might say. Of the look you might get on your face. I had been out of communication for months, you thought I was _dead_ , and I was terrified of how you'd react if I told you I wasn't."

"Phil, on what possible planet would I not be happy that you were still alive?” Clint asks. “I mean, yeah, I might have been pissed that you waited so long to tell me, and Nick Fury is pretty much on my permanent shitlist from now on, but you... I could never be mad that you survived, Phil. Not ever."

Phil purses his lips, then carefully says, "You're mad now."

"I am... not mad. I am perturbed. Because you're an asshole, not because you're still breathing.” Clint shakes his head. “So, that's it. You were just going to let me keep thinking you were dead until... No, not until. Full stop. End of sentence. You were just going to let me keep thinking you were dead."

"I... No. Maybe?” Coulson shrugs a bit. “It just seemed... easier, I guess."

"Easier? To let me think you were dead."

"To let you go."

Clint bristles. “Of fucking course. Because what do I matter?”

“I’m not explaining this right,” Coulson says quickly. He runs a hand over his head. “Clint… When I say it was easier to let you go, that’s not an indication of your lack of worth. If anything, it’s the exact opposite. Because every time I thought about telling you, I would imagine a gamut of reactions, and you slamming a door in my face was one of the mildest. I knew how hard that conversation - this conversation - would be, and with everything else that was going on and going wrong, I couldn’t…” Phil spreads his hands out and gives Clint a helpless look. “I couldn’t have taken that going wrong too. It’s never been about you, Clint. It’s always been about me. I’ve been selfish, and I’m sorry.”

Clint doesn't’ want to cave. His anger is righteous. He was treated beyond poorly and it’s good that he’s upset. It’s good that he understands that he deserves better. But… Seeing Coulson, sitting there across from him, open, and raw, and _apologetic_ \- in a way that Clint could never have imagined - gets to some part deep inside. It finds where Clint’s pain resides and grinds down the most jagged of the edges. He’s still hurt and upset, but now he can see himself, eventually, being neither. Maybe that’s enough for now.

“I won’t say it’s fine,” Clint says, “because it’s not fine. And we’re not good. Not by a long shot. But… I guess I can understand. It was still a shitty thing to do,” Clint adds on quickly when he sees Coulson’s face perk up.

“Yes,” Coulson says, “the shittiest. And I will spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.”

“Jeez, Coulson,” Clint says, rolling his eyes, “don’t get all dramatic on me. Just drop me a line every once in awhile. Let me know you’re still breathing. That should do.” Except, maybe that won’t do, because Coulson gets that pained look on his face again.

“I… I want more than that, Clint.”

“What, like me on your team? I’m not exactly in the best of places at the moment,” Clint says. “In case, you know, the anxiety and PTSD didn’t clue you in.”

“You may have a ways to go, but you’ll get back into fighting shape soon enough, Hawkeye,” Coulson says firmly. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

Clint can’t help but feel a bit disgruntled at the way part of him still lights up from Coulson’s praise.   
“But, actually, I wasn’t talking about you being on my team. Not that I wouldn’t welcome you in a heartbeat,” Coulson adds, “because, God knows, we could use an Avenger on our side. What I meant by wanting more was… well… wanting _more_.”

Coulson stares hopefully at Clint. Clint stares back as his brain works overtime trying to figure out what the heck Coulson might be getting at. It’s only when he notices how pink Coulson’s ears are that he finally gets a clue.

“Uh…”

For some reason, Coulson takes Clint’s gobsmacked look as a reason to plow ahead. "I know that now's not an ideal time to start something-"

"Something?" Clint croaks.

"A, um, relationship.” Coulson smiles. “Anyway, I know it's not an ideal time, but waiting until there is an ideal time is... well, that's just stupid, isn't it? I realize that now. I mean, that’s what I was doing before, and I'm trying to be a lot less stupid about certain things. So, I'd like for us to... It won't be easy, at first, since I'm assigned to the Bus and still, you know, dead, officially, But we can make it work. I know we can."

Clint looks at Phil's face. It's open and hopeful in a way that seems incongruous with what Clint knows of the man. But it is an expression he's seen before, on a face a few decades younger. Which is why Clint opens his mouth, and says once again, "No."

Phil's face falls. “But, I-”

"Coulson… _Phil_ , I know you think you know what you know, but..." Clint scrubs his hands through his hair. "Crap. What I'm trying to say is, you have all of de-aged you's memories. They're fresh right now. And, de-aged you was... a horndog. He was a horndog. And I am, admittedly, mentally and emotionally a complete mess, but physically, I'm kinda smokin' hot. So you have all those fresh, horndog memories, and that's probably bleeding into how you see me now, but I'm sure in a few months you'll-"

"I've wanted you for years," Phil says quietly.

Clint lets out a short, harsh laugh. "No, you... No."

"Yes. I have."

"You're a liar,” Clint says. 

Coulson inclines his head. “Yes, I am. I certainly lied to myself. That’s another thing I’m trying to be stop doing.” He reaches out across the island towards Clint, letting his hand rest, palm side up, half way between them. “‘I promise you, Clint, I’m not lying to you. I’ll never lie to you again. Not on purpose. Not by omission. Never.”

Clint stares at the offered hand. “You’re a spy; lying’s part and parcel of what you do.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks towards the fridge so he doesn’t have to see Coulson’s face. "If you wanted me so much, why didn't you say anything?"

"It's complicated."

"This isn't a Facebook post, Phil,” Clint says, turning back to him with a scowl. “This is you trying to convince me to not throw you out of here on you Goddamn ear. Un-complicate it."

Coulson pulls his hand back and lets it settle in his lap. He squares his shoulders. “This is going to sound bad.”

Clint snorts. 

"I believed that entering a relationship with you would have compromised both of our positions with SHIELD,” Coulson says. “I was third in line to the Director's chair, and I knew you were being groomed for the Initiative, and I didn't think jeopardizing either of those things would be worth it."

"Wow."

"It's the truth."

"Yeah."

"I was wrong, Clint,” Coulson says, leaning forward on his stool. “I was stupid, and narrow-minded, and short-sighted, and stupid, and _wrong_. When I think about what we could have had together, how long we could have been together, it makes me sick to think of all that time that's been-"

"Wait,” Clint says sharply, “so you... Did you know about how I... I mean, how I felt about you. You knew?"

Coulson doesn't say anything, but the look on his face is enough.

“Oh, my God…”

“I was stupid,” Coulson says again. “So stupid that even death wasn’t enough for me to get my act together. I had to be _de-aged_ for anything to really get through.”

“Phil…”

"Those days I spent here,” Coulson says. “I got a taste of you. Of how things could be with you. I think maybe the reason I remember everything is because I wanted to so bad. When I changed back, I held onto those memories so tightly.” Coulson reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of plain white paper. “Just in case, though, I... uh, my younger self left me a note before he..." He holds it out towards Clint.

Clint takes the paper, unfolds it, and immediately lets out a sharp bark of laughter. Written there in a loopy scrawl that's nothing like Coulson's precise penmanship is-

_Get your fucking head out of your fucking ass you fucking fuck!_

"Jesus," Clint chuckles, "you were such a little shit." There's a prickling sensation in Clint's sinuses, and he's horrified to feel moisture start to gather in his eyes.

“I really, really was,” Coulson says with a small grin. “I was right, though.” 

There’s a clear look of expectation on his face. Clint knows what Coulson wants to hear; he just doesn’t know if he can get those words out. More importantly, he doesn't even know if he wants to.

Clint takes a deep and slowly lets it out. “Coulson… _Phil_ , you’ve kind of hit me with a lot here.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do. A few days ago I thought you were dead. And then you were a teenager, and you weren’t really dead, you just decided I wasn’t worth being in the know.” Clint quickly holds up a hand as Coulson opens his mouth. Coulson nods and stays quiet, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “I know that wasn’t the reason you gave me, but that’s what it felt like,” Clint says. “Like I was… Like I was so broken by what had happened to me that I couldn’t be trusted. It really fucking sucked, Phil. And then, teenage you leaves, and I’m in the dark. Again.”

“I am sorry about that, but it was the nature of the mission, Clint.”

“I _know_ about missions, Phil. And maybe it sounds like I’m being overly critical and overly emotional, but you need to understand where I’m coming from right now. Why my answer’s still no.”

Coulson’s face goes carefully blank. “I see.”

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I’m still really pissed at you.”

“I know that too.”

“And… I don’t trust you.”

Coulson flinches.

“You’re offering something I had dreamed about for years, practically on a silver platter, and maybe I'm an idiot, but… I don't _trust_ you, Phil.”

They sit in silence as Clint waits for Coulson’s next move. 

“You're not an idiot, Clint,” Coulson finally says. The corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly into something that might resemble a smile, if his eyes didn’t look so damn sad. “If anything, I'm the one who…” He shakes his head. “You're right, what's hanging between us is nothing to try and build something on. Not something like, well, like what I wanted. That was presumptuous. And springing that on you like I did was rude and thoughtless.”

“Let’s not go overboard, Coulson,” Clint says. “It was a dick move, but, compared to all your other dick moves lately it wasn't that horrible.” Clint smirks, hoping that Coulson will take the ribbing as the peace offering it’s intended to be.

Coulson huffs out a short laugh. “I have set that particular bar pretty high, haven’t I? I guess I should work on that too.”

“You could start by not leaving me in the dark again,” Clint says.

“You… you want to still hear from me?”

“Jesus, Phil, I said no to picking out china patterns and shit, not to…” Clint scowls at him. “You said we were friends, right? So be my friend. And let me be yours. Call me every once in awhile. Let me know if you find any more aliens.”

The smile that’s curving Coulson’s mouth looks more genuine now. “And you’ll do the same. You’ll let me know how you and Lucky are doing?”

“Definitely.”

“Um…” Coulson's’ ears go pink again as he once more reaches inside his jacket. He places a phone on top of the island between him and Clint. “It’s secure.”

Clint’s eyebrows go up. “Did you really think you'd be smooth enough that I would automatically agree to booty calls, Coulson?”

“I… would not put it that way.”

Clint laughs despite himself because there’s the ghost of a wiseass, shithead teenager lingering at the edges of Coulson’s face. “Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that. And, while you’re at it, tell me about this new team of yours, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll fix you lunch before you head back out.”

“I do remember you making one hell of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Coulson says.

“I think I can swing that,” Clint says softly. 

Coulson clears his throat. “Okay, so, my team. You already know about May…

 

*******

Coulson stays true to his word and calls Clint every few days. Sometimes he regales Clint with news of his team’s latest mission, but more often than not they find themselves just talking about news stories, or movie trailers, or nothing much at all. Having Coulson back in his ear eases something in Clint that he didn’t even know was unsettled.

It’s… nice.

Until it’s not. Until there’s a frantic call in the middle of the night telling him to warn the neighbors, grab Lucky, and get the hell out of New York. 

Clint doesn’t think anyone would come for him, the broken Avenger, but he’d rather be safe than gunned down in his apartment, so he follows Coulson’s orders one more time and falls off the grid.

By the time he’s made his way to the old family farm most of the hoopla’s over. SHIELD’s gone. Nat’s in the wind. And Coulson isn’t picking up his damn phone.

*******

“I swear to God, Phil, if you managed to get yourself actually, no do-over, killed this time, you’d better hope there isn’t an afterlife, because if there is, when my ticket’s finally punched, I will come for you and kick your spectral ass six ways to Sunday.”

*******

In the week and a half they’ve been at the farm, Clint has learned to distinguish between Lucky’s many barks. He knows the deer barks, and the squirrel barks, and the crows-are-being-deliberately-antagonizing barks. He also knows the someone’s-coming-up-the-driveway bark. 

Clint has weapons stashed all over the house, but it’s the rifle he grabs when Lucky uses that bark.

He takes the steps two at a time and hurries to the south facing window in what used to be his parent’s room. He peers out from behind a yellowed lace curtain and what he sees has him nearly sagging to the floor in relief.

By the time Lola rolls to a stop, Clint is waiting on the front porch with his hands on his hips. He waits until Coulson has opened the door and started to get out before he makes his displeasure known.

“Phillip J. Coulson,” Clint says in roughly the same tone he uses to chastise Lucky when he digs through the trash.

“I know, I know,” Coulson says as he ducks his head. “I should have contacted you, but it’s been kind of crazy.” He winces when he gets a good look at the expression on Clint’s face. “Not that that’s an excuse. Though, in my defense, there has been quite a lot of fighting for my life. And I lost the phone I was using to call you. And I knew I could try and contact you other ways, but I figured if you weren’t on Hydra’s radar I didn’t want to draw attention to you, and-”

“Jesus Christ, Phil,” Clint says as he stomps down the porch steps. “I… I can’t…” He takes a deep breath. “I really want to kiss you right now, and I need to know if you’d be okay with that.”

Phil blinks at him. “Um… Sorry, what?”

“It’s just…” Clint scrubs his hands through his hair and hopes he doesn’t look as crazed as he feels. “Waiting to hear from you… Waiting and _not_ hearing from you… I’ve had time to think.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ve decided that I’ve gotten over being hurt.”

“All right.”

“I _am_ still a little pissed, though.”

“Understandable.”

“But, I do trust you.”

“Oh, good.”

“So, if you’re still interested in me, like that-”

“I am. Yes. Definitely.” Phil smirks. “Wait, should I brush my teeth first?”

“Oh, for…” Clint shoves at Phil’s shoulder then, with the same hand, grabs his tie and reels him in. “Still such a little shit,” he says against Phil’s mouth before Phil does a maneuver involving jaw stroking, lip nibbling, and an _absolutely_ filthy thing with his tongue that leaves Clint momentarily speechless. 

“Um, damn,” Clint manages to say after a few minutes - or hours, he’s not really sure.

“I have picked up a few things since my teenage years,” Coulson says smugly. “But, then again, some moves are just classic.”

Clint snorts out a laugh as he feels a familiar squeeze of his right butt cheek. “Oh, my God. Get off me, and come inside before we start scandalizing the wildlife.” He shakes his head fondly. “Being with you is gonna be a trip, Agent Coulson.”

Phil’s cheeks pink up every so slightly. “It’s, uh, actually Director Coulson, now.”

Clint’s eyebrows go up. “That’s a story I’m going to want to hear.”

“Later, Phil says. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after despite the occasional killer robot, brainwashed assassin, and weird alien stuff.
> 
> The end.


End file.
